And a vice president from the Mexican conglomerate Trujillo Industries had contacted Roman; they wanted to support Bodega Sofia, however needed. Roman had rescued the kidnapped daughter of tycoon Daniel Trujillo when he’d been a recently discharged army ranger establishing a security business. Later, he’d convinced the industrialist to invest in the Monte when the kingdom needed capital, and Mateo had paid off the bulk of that investment in the intervening five years.
Sofia didn’t know why the billionaire who dominated Mexico’s auto industry wanted to get involved with a concern as tiny as her winery, but it felt like another cog aligning in her kingdom’s favor.
Juan Carlos and the Consejo were still agitating for her failure, with ever-shorter news stories appearing further and further away from the main page, but even he and his band of lazy winemakers were too busy with harvest to cast many stones. The vandal hadn’t been caught, but neither had the vandalism continued, probably because of the Monte’s current always-on status.
Behind the walls of the winery she’d built, creating wines she was proud of, surrounded by the kingdom she might actually save, Sofia could let Aish’s songs play and listen or not listen as the moment allowed. When she did listen, when she did discover herself humming tunelessly along like she was now as she walked the fifteen-foot-high walkway checking the temperatures of the giant steel tanks, Sofia found control by behaving like one of his songs was like any other.
Usually, however, she couldn’t feel the singer’s hot gaze on her as she hummed.
She glanced up and found him, through the open door, watching her as he sprayed out just-emptied bins. He didn’t drop his ardent stare as he let loose one of his slow, aching grins.
He grabbed the end of the spray nozzle, twisted it to lessen the pressure, and raised it to send water cascading down over his head.
Sofia let out a surprised huff, watched the water slick back his hair and melt his long-sleeve black T-shirt to his shoulders, then ducked her head to study the temperature readings she’d written on her clipboard. Or, at least, pretend to study them.
The buzz of her phone was a welcome distraction. She pulled it out of her pocket, read the text, then looked toward her office. She didn’t look at him again as she made her way down the stairs.
Rushing into her office, she closed the door behind her, shutting out his music and the noise of the machinery. The only sound now was the delightful one of shrieks and giggles.
“Can’t you think of a way to entertain them that doesn’t involve tossing them around?” she asked Henry.
“What?” The man who should know better, their bodyguard, was standing and slowly spinning in the open space. “They like it.”
Indeed, her three-year-old niece and nephew did like it as they hung from Henry’s huge hands and he spun like a helicopter propeller. It was a testament to the strength of his shoulders and arms how high he could hold them, their chubby legs in shorts kicking in the air, their heads flung back as they laughed and screamed.
“Tía Fia, Tía Fia, mira, mira,” they called. “Faster, tío.”
Sofia raised her eyebrows. “If you go faster, Helen is going to know.” She made the motion of spinning something over her head and launching it. He stopped on a dime.
Helen had been Roxanne’s personal assistant and consigliere until the twins were born and she’d informed the billionaire that she’d be moving laterally to take charge as the kids’ nanny. No one argued with the indomitable former army nurse.
Henry began using the next prince and princess of the Monte del Vino Real to perform bicep curls.
“What are they doing here?” she asked as they whooped.
“Favor for Helen. They’ve been buggin’ her about coming to see the cantador.” His accent was exaggerated as he said the singer.
“So I said I’d bring ’em.”
A quick flare of anger burned away Sofia’s smile. “That’s not your decision to make.”
Henry’s dark blond brows rose up into his hairline. “O...kay.” He gently set the twins down. “Sorry. Misread the room. I thought things were getting better between you two.”
Sofia went to her knees to steady the twins as they wobbled, and Henry joined her on the floor. Liliana leaned one chubby arm on Sofia’s shoulder and swiped back her tawny, sweaty hair from her flushed forehead. “That was tiring,” she huffed in English for Henry’s sake, the r in tiring transformed into a w.
Sofia wrapped her arm around her niece’s waist and nodded seriously. “I could see you were working hard.” It killed Sofia every time these little babies behaved like mature people. She tugged her niece against her and soaked up her smell of fresh-baked pan.
“Sorry,” she said to Henry, muffled in Liliana’s hair.
He settled back against the sofa, letting Gabriel climb up on the cushion and then onto his thick shoulders. Henry was Gabriel’s favorite jungle gym. “Where’d I get it wrong?” he asked.
She didn’t have much in common with Henry and they didn’t go places together. Sofia didn’t have friends like that. The big American was her best friend because he chose her. He wasn’t family or a villager, people that had to withstand her presence in one way or another. He sought her out when his job was in the vicinity, lazed around, asked her opinions, and laughed at her jokes. He’d shown her, in a hundred ways over five years, that he wanted her company and needed its constancy.
She leaned back against the sofa next to him and pulled Liliana into her lap, gave her a Wine Spectator. Liliana Sofia Esperanza y Medina loved looking at the pictures.
“Things are better,” she said tightly.
In the long nights and early mornings, between the shared lugging and sneaked staring, during the easy conversations and moments turned thick with memory because
