September 1
Part Two
Only a lifetime’s worth of practice keeping it together while her parents humiliated her in front of the cameras kept Sofia from vibrating apart as she stepped away from Aish Salinger. Kept her from shaking into tiny pieces as the entire world watched with bated breath.
#Aishia was a fever and it seemed like every living soul was sick with it. According to Namrita, the past and speculative future of the wounded rock star and party-girl princess had infected the nightly news and entertainment tabloids and social media. Both camps had remained silent, so it made minor celebrities of every vineyard worker or coffee shop barista who’d known them that long-ago autumn. A part-time pot salesman was getting a spot on a reality dance show.
Her winery launch that couldn’t get the attention of a Reddit board a month ago now had coverage from every major news outlet in the world and the enthusiastic presence of nineteen superstar “interns,” movers and shakers from the wine and hospitality industries, who watched from the VIP section.
Sofia felt the weight of the world’s gaze as they recorded her first interaction with a man she hated. She did the one thing she never wanted to do again. She touched Aish Salinger.
For the benefit of her people, she hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow, fought back the sensation of heat and muscle, breathed through her mouth to avoid the scent of him, and moved to his side.
Henry, who was supposed to have escorted Aish through the receiving line before presenting him to Sofia, stepped to her opposite side.
“That slippery fucker got away from me. You okay?” her best friend whispered in her ear. He was head of her sister-in-law’s security, but Sofia had borrowed him for the launch. She’d wanted Henry’s intimidating bulk and bullet-chewing smile to be the first thing Aish saw when he stepped out of the car, wanted Henry to relay warnings and orders as he walked the rock star through the line of Sofia’s family before Aish got anywhere close to her.
Now she had to improvise. She couldn’t lean on Henry’s hulking protectiveness. She had to stand alone just as she had when Aish had abandoned her.
Sofia kept the placid smile on her face as she nodded then tugged Aish toward the other end of the receiving line. Henry walked just behind her.
Low, Aish said, “I’m sorry I—”
“Shut up. Smile.” She kept her eyes forward as she smiled warmly and tipped her head toward him. “Don’t talk to me unless it’s for an audience. We have nothing to say to each other.”
She could do this for a month, project a royal demeanor and blur her vision when she had to interact with him. She’d made a mistake when she’d watched him get out of the car, hoping to see the depressed, disregarded rocker Namrita described. Yes, he’d changed, stuffed his distinct beauty—a combination of a Japanese-American mom and a Jewish-American dad, all soaked in the California sun—into the costume of any overindulged rock star. Mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes and the ebony hair that once brushed his jawline was now short and pompadoured. His once-tanned skin looked pale in his black V-neck T-shirt and tight black jeans, looked pulled too thin over biceps and vein-throbbing forearms, now covered in indigo ink.
But still, he was beautiful.
When her eyes had helplessly trailed over his long, leonine nose and slashing cheekbones and plump bottom lip and wide shoulders and endlessly arousing height, she realized she would be attracted to him if he painted himself polka-dotted and wore a clown’s wig. When he pressed against her—too rangy, too hard, too rough ridden—she realized her body’s reaction to the smell and feel of him was programmed into her DNA.
She relied on her hatred to cool and calm her as they walked in her kingdom’s sunlight.
At the opposite end of the receiving line, she let go of his arm and wiped her hand against her hip, steadying herself to begin the introductions. This was fine. This was good. The cameras were going to love it and Sofia could talk around him while almost ignoring him. She’d positioned them so the lenses would catch the winery and her luxury hotel, the Hospedería de Bodega Sofia, the red-tile rooftops of her village, and the limestone outcrops of the Pico Viajadora, that mountain that had defended them for centuries.
In a manner uglier than the Moors’ cannons that tried to blast out her ancestors, Sofia would punch a hole through it and expose them to the world.
The first person in line looked at her with worry crinkling the lines that winged out from his handsome green eyes.
“This is my brother, Roman Sheppard,” she said, her tone different than her camera-friendly smile as Aish shook his hand. “He and his security team will keep an eye on you while you’re here. If you touch me again without my permission, I’ll ask him to break something.”
Aish stiffened beside her, but her half brother gave a begrudging huff. “We’re also here to keep you and your people safe,” Roman said, his gravel voice tinged with Texas.
Strong, dark haired, and dressed in black, the brother they discovered five years ago was head of a security firm that protected magnates and sheikhs. When #Aishia began to scream across the internet, Roman pulled his best people off other assignments and brought them to the Monte. Neck deep in winery preparations, Sofia hadn’t even conceived the need for security until one of her growers’ teen daughters was offered twelve hundred euros for her invitation.
Now, Roman was ensuring that the descent of a rock star, frenzied tourists, and roaming press on their village occurred without incident.
“But I am ex-army ranger,” he said. “So if she asks me to hurt you, I can make it real creative.” A taciturn man who seldom
