When she perfected her chemical compound that revolutionized the wine industry and became instantly and magnificently wealthy, she turbocharged that wild child with an Amex Black. She worked with top winemakers, went clubbing with the worst of people, advised in creating exciting wines, and let the paparazzi catch her in compromising positions. For three years, she enjoyed the work-hard-play-hard behavior that would have been celebrated in a man. When Sofia did it, they called it antics.
She’d put all that aside two years ago when her brother had shown up at her Tuscany villa and asked her to come home. He’d asked for her help to secure a better future for the Monte.
Two years of quiet living and unrelenting effort to build the winery weren’t enough to erase Sofia’s wild child from the wine world’s collective consciousness or cool the rumors that her invention relied more on her billionaire sister-in-law’s money than Sofia’s wine expertise.
The wine world was making her pay now for her behavior then.
But at all those parties with all of those boy toys, she’d never heard Aish’s name. She’d never been haunted by his voice in a dance club. She’d remained blissfully unaware that Young Son was a worldwide sensation.
The universe hadn’t been kind; it had been cruel, hiding a secret until its reveal was the most disastrous.
Sofia shook her head no. She’d had no contact with him.
“Okay,” Namrita said. She paused for a beat and then said, “I think I figured a way out.”
“We delay the launch,” Sofia said. “We wait a month for some other stupidity to attract people’s attention.”
“It’s not that simple,” Namrita said. “You don’t understand how big the mystery of that song is. ‘In You’ was Young Son’s breakout hit; a really hot guy sang about a very hot relationship in a lot of detail. He wouldn’t deny that she was real but he also wouldn’t name her, which only made it more catnip-y for everyone. There are websites and YouTube documentaries dedicated to discovering her.”
Sofia scrubbed at her thick hair, cut into a bob that ended at the top of her neck, and wished she could brush it forward and hide her eyes with it.
“Now to discover that the woman is you, a princess, who had a romance with a rock star when you were teenagers, well...people are losing their shit. The hashtag #Aishia is trending worldwide. The Daily Telegram paid someone from that fall $500,000 for a fuzzy Polaroid of you two. His video has been viewed millions of times.”
Sofia had only deigned to watch the video once, caught a glimpse of him—drunken and half naked and covered in ink—before she’d turned away, nauseated. She wanted to run into the darkness of her tunnels with the hope that when she emerged, blind and grey, years from now, the world will have forgotten that her name was ever linked to Aish Salinger.
“We’ve struggled to get attention for the launch. Now we have more attention than we know what to do with. Even people who turned down your internship invitation are calling.”
That snapped Sofia’s head up. They’d invited a pool of fifty people to take twenty spots as superstar interns who would enjoy a luxurious, all-expense-paid, month-long trip to assist Bodega Sofia with its inaugural harvest season. The last time she’d checked, only two had RSVP’d. These wined and dined interns—wine writers, hospitality up-and-comers, travel bloggers, and young winemakers—would be the first guests at Bodega Sofia’s luxury hotel, would take part in the entire winemaking process, and would be the most powerful bullhorns declaring the potential of Monte wines and tourism.
Namrita continued, “So how do we take advantage of the attention, transform it into something positive, and work the public’s sudden empathy for Aish?”
Sofia’s combat boot slipped off the barrel. “What?” she asked. “Empathy for Aish?”
“That’s right,” Namrita said, shaking her head. “Don’t ask me how, but he made vomiting on camera a positive. His vulnerability hit a chord and reminded fans how much they used to love him. People are so giddy about you two that it’s drowning out the rumors that he stole songs and was involved in his bass player’s death.”
“What?” Sofia asked again, thoroughly confused.
Carmen Louisa waved an irritated hand at her. “She doesn’t listen to any music made after 1965. Or that doesn’t have something weird in it, like a rain stick or a gaita, un como se dice bagpipe.” She sighed at Sofia. “The guy he started the band with, John Hamilton. He killed himself last year.”
Sofia dug her blunt nails into her jeans. “John?” His name echoed in her ancient chamber. “He’s dead?”
Namrita nodded. “Did you know him?”
Aish’s blond and blue-eyed best friend went everywhere with Aish. So of course John joined him as one of the student-laborers Aish’s winemaking uncle recruited every year to help with harvest at his California vineyard. That fall of her nineteenth birthday, Sofia had also joined the group. And Aish found her in a wine tank.
John had been friendly, funny, accommodating. And he’d disliked her. Probably even hated her.
She nodded. She’d known John Hamilton. But she didn’t elaborate.
“Production on Young Son’s fourth album has stalled,” Namrita said. “There were nasty rumors that Aish couldn’t write a song without stealing it, that he was jealous and convinced his friend to kill himself, but now...”
When she paused, Sofia felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.
“There’s a growing romanticism that only the princess who inspired his most famous song can save him.”
Sofia slid to the front of the barrel and put her feet on the floor, shock biting at her numb fingers and toes. “What are you saying?”
Namrita didn’t blink. “I’m saying we should invite him to be a part of our internship program.”
“No,” Sofia said, standing slowly.
“We can use the public’s fascination with you two. If we suggest that there are still feelings between you then we can...”
“No!” she shouted, a flare of heat burning through her cool as she flung her wineglass down, shattering it against the marble, flinging crystal like shrapnel.
Namrita gasped. The PR rep looked down at her smooth, dark shin.
Blood was welling in the cut across the middle of it.
Sofia stared, horrified.
“¡Dios mio!” Carmen Louisa said, the first to react as she led Namrita to sit on a barrel then slapped the woman’s hand on top of the cut. “I’ll get the first-aid kit.”
“I... I’m sorry,” Sofia stuttered.
Namrita blew out a breath. “Believe it or not,” she huffed, planting her boot on the barrel then tucking her dress around her thigh, “I’ve had clients react worse.”
It was almost a challenge to that wild child in Sofia, that little monster that bit back, to break more, to kick her combat boots into the barrels, to stomp and scream and shout until wine ran like blood over the marble. And this, at the end of the day, was why her winery—and her hopes for her people—were doomed.
Because millions of new dollars and a lifetime in the role hadn’t magically transformed Sofia into the princess her kingdom could depend on. There was a reason they no longer leaned on her after her brother returned. And yet, she’d shackled their future to her ankle. When she went down, the kingdom would go down with her.
She wrapped her hand around her forearm’s blazing red tattoo to hide it from sight.
As if hearing her fear, Namrita said, “You’ve got to look at the big picture. You have options if the winery fails. But your growers who’ve invested their life savings don’t.”
Sofia narrowed her eyes, but grabbed her cargo coat off a barrel and stooped to wrap it around Namrita’s chilly legs.
“I know it seems extreme,” the PR rep continued, her eyes dark and serious as Sofia pressed the cloth against the wound. “But fake romances are used all the
time to create diversions in high-profile situations. A pro-mance with Aish Salinger for a month could mean the difference between Bodega Sofia’s success or failure.”
She nodded toward Carmen Louisa clanging down the stairs. “Do you hate him more than you love her?” she whispered.
Namrita had been recommended by Sofia’s sister-in-law because she pulled no punches. Right now, Sofia didn’t need the low blow. “I know what’s at stake,” she hissed.
Her reputation. The future of her people. A legacy that stretched back a millennium.
For centuries, the Monte del Vino Real had grown the most admired Tempranillo grapes in the world. Winemakers from Madrid to Bordeaux, Napa Valley to South Africa, transformed their grapes into incredible wines. But here in the Monte, owners of generations-old wineries—or bodegas as they were known in Spain—stayed fat and rich producing low-quality wines sold in jugs. They’ve loved proclaiming in the village square that the Monte was known for its winegrowing not winemaking. As the leaders of the Consejo Regulador del Monte, the regulatory board that in centuries past had ensured that only the best wines were sent to Spain’s royal family, these winemakers turned laziness into law and used their power to trap the Monte in old-fashioned ways.
The instant Bodega Sofia was announced, they’d harassed Sofia’s efforts every way they could. They’d denied her their stamp, making access to materials and shipping difficult. Their leader, Juan Carlos Pascual, appeared repeatedly in the press harping on her party-girl past and casting doubt on her winemaking abilities. And they bold-faced lied to her people, claiming she would insist on prohibitively expensive vineyard changes that would beggar them.
The Consejo sowed fear in the Monte, when Sofia wanted to add strength. She and her brothers feared that their sleepy little kingdom would become comatose without the money and tourism of a reinvigorated wine industry. While the finances of the Monte had stabilized, the kingdom was still losing its young people to the greater world. A local wine industry focused on Monte winemakers could bring in money, tourists, and jobs.
Without it, the Monte del Vino Real would become a ghost kingdom in a matter of years.
Namrita slipped the coat off her legs so Carmen Louisa could clean the wound. Confident the cut was clear of glass and didn’t need stitches, Carmen Louisa began to apply butterfly tabs and a larger bandage. She shoved alcohol swabs into Sofia’s hands to clean Namrita’s hand.
“You’re going to clean this mess down here, too,” Carmen Louisa said angrily. “Actúas como si fueras la única que tuvo un mal día. También estoy teniendo un mal día y...”
Sofia ignored her as she swiped at Namrita’s palm. “Aish Salinger knows only how to take; he believes everything is his due.” How dare she make her say these things. How dare she make her remember this. “He’s never had a contrite day in his life. How do we know he’ll agree to any of this?”
“Because he’s already said he would.” Namrita fingered the large white bandage on her leg. “His manager said he’ll be here for the launch.”
Sofia stood up, hooking her thumbs into her jeans and gripping her hips. “You...you had no right!”
“I know,” Namrita nodded, lowering her legs and pulling down her dress. “But I couldn’t present such an outrageous solution unless I knew he was on board.”
She effortlessly pushed Sofia into a corner.
“But...but...” Jesucristo, she might actually be sick again. “But how do you know this will work? What if you manufacture this spectacle and the wine world doesn’t care?”
“I sent an email to the intern candidates and asked if they’d join if Aish was here.” She crossed her wrists in her lap. “They all replied yes.”
Carmen Louisa gasped.
Sofia felt shock like lightning bursts in her chest. “All fifty candidates?”
Namrita nodded.
“But we...we only have twenty spots,” Carmen Louisa sputtered.
For the first time since her descent downstairs, Namrita smiled. It caused her cheeks to bloom roses, a sweet look inappropriate for this wrecking ball. “Then we’ll be able to pick and choose the best people, won’t we?”
Repeating that she hadn’t the right to contact the candidates was worthless at this point. Staggered, stunned, and feeling like her life was unraveling, Sofia looked openmouthed at Carmen Louisa for...for what? For the straight-talking rationalization she always provided as her mentor? The morale-boosting confidence she gave as her dear friend? The motherly guidance that her own mother was never there to provide?
But right now Carmen Louisa was neither her mentor, dear friend, or mother. Carmen Louisa was her partner and her employee. And her partner and employee had put her future in Sofia’s hands.
So had her brother and his wife, who believed Sofia’s efforts were the best course to bring industry and revenue to the kingdom. Her people looked to her, their princesa, with eyes filled with equal parts distrust and hope.
She’d wanted to be needed. And now she was.
Her kingdom needed her to spend thirty days faking a romance with a man who ripped out her heart.
She mentally embraced the cold and the dark of her cellar, the heart of her dreams and her kingdom’s hopes, and let it suffocate her panic. Let it make her numb.
She lifted her chin. “Vale,” she said. “Tell him to be here the first of September.” She gathered herself and focused the power of her royal gaze on Namrita. “But he is going to sign off on some rules before he steps a foot into my kingdom.”
Knowing when to cede ground, Namrita nodded.
When Sofia went back upstairs to the sunlit winery, to the clatter and dust of the workmen wrapping up construction before the launch in two weeks, she would throw herself into unraveling this mess. In an hour, she promised Carmen Louisa. Just one more hour, and then she’d be up.
She wanted to be alone in the dark and the cool. She wanted to surround herself with her wines, the only children she’d ever have.
Protected by her mountain’s rock walls and surrounded by the only thing that would ever truly need her, she would shore up her defenses and renew her most important vow: to never fall in love again.
September 1
Aish Salinger sat in the back seat of a black Mercedes sedan that crawled down a narrow cobblestone street in the Monte del Vino Real. The cheering villagers and fans packing the lane made it impossible to go any faster. He couldn’t even see the famous mountains Sofia had talked about because of the bodies pressed against the car.
He squeezed his forearm and gripped his jaw against telling the driver to move his ass. It wasn’t the driver’s fault Aish was late.
“She’s gonna be so pissed,” he muttered to the darkly tinted window. All he could see through his Ray-Bans were a press of bellies, bodies, and smooshed faces.
“She’s not going to fall to her knees and ask you to marry her,” his manager said in his Brooklyn-tinged accent.
Aish turned on him and glowered. Devonte Mason, their manager since Young Son’s first album, was built like a linebacker and Aish, at six-foot-four, found few back seats comfortable. With his elbows up in Aish’s space as he worked his phone, Devonte was too close, too calm, while Aish was a nervous fucking wreck.
He went to run his fingers through his hair when he remembered, at the tacky feel of gel and product, how long the stylist had worked on it. Fuck. He was a year out of practice with this shit.
“Really wish you hadn’t brought so many people, man,” he grumbled, wiping his hand on his jeans and thinking about the entourage of stylists, makeup people, and wardrobe crew they’d left in the village.
“And I wish you’d gone outside in the last six months,” Devonte said, his thumbs still flying over the screen. “You look like shit; you need that many people to clean you up.”
Would Sofia think he looked like shit?
It was the entourage Aish had been trying to escape yesterday when he rented a car after landing in Madrid instead of piling into the private plane with everyone. Google Maps had insisted it was only going to be “4 h 46 min” from Madrid to the Monte, giving him a chance to get his bearings and clear his head before arriving in Sofia’s kingdom.
But after making a pit stop and grabbing a coffee in a village, he’d felt awful, like he had food poisoning although he’d barely eaten, like he was still suffering from the aftereffects of that evil vegetable gin. He’d had to pull over on the winding mountain roads—and over, and over—until he’d startled awake this morning with goats bleating at the rented Porsche. So instead of arriving yesterday, attempting a night of sleep, and then meeting with Sofia and her people this morning, he’d screeched into the Monte an hour ago, unwashed, nauseous and bleary eyed.
Now Aish was late and apparently looked like shit for Sofia’s big day.
He aimed his frustration at the one person who didn’t deserve it. “I don’t need your crap right now,” he muttered. “Lie to me and tell me I’m pretty.”
Devonte snorted and finally put his phone down. He narrowed his eyes at Aish. “You’re a perfect meat of a man,” he said, his voice going Barry White deep.
Aish rolled his eyes and looked out the widow again. “Fuck you.”
Devonte tsked through his teeth. “You don’t pay me to blow hot air up your ass. You pay me to tell you the truth.”
In the last year, Devonte had been the grim reaper of truth telling. He’d been the one who’d banged on Aish’s hotel suite door in Memphis and peeled him out from under a pile of naked bodies to show him John’s suicide note. It was Devonte who’d driven them down to the park by the Mississippi River in a panic, who’d first seen the pile of clothes. Over the next months, it was Devonte who told him, in the closed-curtain dimness of Aish’s living room, about the growing plagiarism allegations and the rumors that Aish was responsible for John’s death and that John—six months after he left a note—was legally declared dead although a body had never been found.
Hate Crush (Filthy Rich) Page 2
