Hate Crush (Filthy Rich)

by Angelina M. Lopez

  The reporter zeroed in on the one thing the interns had complained about as images of Sofia and Aish appeared on the screen. “A lust affair had seemed inevitable between the reunited duo; individually they’re known for having a hard time keeping their pants on. But the intern we spoke to said the interactions between Aish Salinger and Princess Sofia are as awkward and uncomfortable behind the scenes as they are on camera.”

  Image after image showed Sofia smiling grimly at Aish, shrinking back from his unexpected touches, and glaring at him when he went off script, as he did day after day. Aish was refusing to keep the bargain he made. But the cameras were catching Sofia failing at it.

  “Many blame the princess. Although Aish has thrown himself into the difficult vineyard labor—as well as the hard work of wooing the princess—he’s been getting nothing in return but a cold shoulder.”

  Aish was being portrayed as the innocent. After what he’d done. After he’d left her alone and afraid when she’d needed him most.

  Sofia hid her hands in her lap so her friend couldn’t see them shake.

  “Some interns are concerned about their ability to leave. After an inn in the backwater kingdom closed for unexpected repairs, the inn’s guests found themselves struggling to find flights out of the rural airport. Some say the Monte del Vino Real is not ready for the tourism the princess wants to force on it.”

  The reporter failed to mention that Sofia fixed the inn’s unexpected problem within two hours of it happening, reopening the inn and placating the guests with free cases of wine and tours of El Castillo del Monte, their six-hundred-year-old castle. Her repair involved bribing the inn owner, who was suspicious of Sofia’s efforts, with more money than the Consejo had bribed him with to close.

  They’d modernized the airport before the winery was complete. There’d never been a problem with flights. Whoever was speaking to the media was doing it with a bile that Sofia hadn’t noticed among the interns.

  “None of the interns were willing to go on record about putting an end to their month at the winery. For perspective, we spoke to the top winemaker in the Monte del Vino Real, Juan Carlos Pascual.”

  Carmen Louisa’s colorful cursing filled Sofia’s office.

  “I’m not surprised the interns are unhappy.” Juan Pascual appeared on the screen in all of his Spanish hacienda owner glory, silver haired, handsome, unquestionable in his misogyny. “Even if Aish and Sofia had hopped into bed in the middle of the village, it wouldn’t have covered up the fact that Princesa Sofia is unqualified and ill prepared. She harangues our winemakers to change techniques passed down from their grandfathers because, why, she invented the chemical to eradicate cork taint? What proof do we have it’s even her invention?”

  Cork taint, a naturally occurring fault that made wine smell like moldy basements, used to plague the wine industry until the chemical Sofia developed eliminated it. She leased the chemical’s license to a manufacturer and received a percentage of every vial sold. Since a drop was now injected into almost every bottle of wine produced, that percentage added up to a pretty penny. The rumor that her billionaire sister-in-law’s company had developed the chemical and given credit to the spoiled princess was an old and tired one. Men in the wine industry loved to trot it out to discredit Sofia’s hard work, training, and years of experience.

  “The larger concern is how Sofia’s delusions have affected her brother Mateo, the future ruler of our kingdom,” Juan Carlos said, his brow furrowed in a mockery of worry.

  Sofia shot Namrita a glance. This was new.

  “He’s ripped out many of our vineyards and installed his own clone. Has our fruit quality improved? Many think no. I worry that these children’s effort to modernize centuries of tradition will ultimately damage the Monte del Vino Real’s reputation for excellence in the eyes of our fruit buyers.”

  “Joder,” Sofia breathed through her teeth. Juan Carlos had taken off the gloves.

  The Monte had one thing going for it: a successful winegrowing industry. Her brother had replaced tired and underperforming vines with his Tempranillo Vino Real, a clone bred to grow higher quality grapes and withstand climate change. His new clone and careful financial management had brought the kingdom back from bankruptcy.

  But Juan Carlos and the Consejo winemakers, all intimate friends with her parents, wanted to undermine any change and maintain a status quo that allowed them to keep wealth among a powerful few.

  “Unfortunately, the Monte is being torn apart by a woman with too much time on her hands. We’d hoped Mr. Salinger would help her fill it, pero no.” Juan Carlos chuckled. “Without proper distraction—a man, a family—our princesa makes up fantasies about a kingdom on the brink of ruin with her as its only savior. Our future king would be best served distancing himself from the delusions of his sister.”

  Juan Carlos was drawing a line in the sand and telling Mateo to choose a side.

  Sofia hit the off button, wishing she could erase Juan Carlos’s words just as easily. He’d publicly voiced the worry that sometimes smacked Sofia awake at night.

  Had she insisted on a winery and a new way of winemaking as the only way forward for her kingdom because it forced her people to need her? Had she handcuffed them to her success or failure—even knowing her reputation would make success harder—so they couldn’t get away?

  When she’d been the only one caring for the kingdom in her early twenties, she felt like she was flapping a fan at a forest fire: listening to her people’s woes that she couldn’t fix, trying to keep her brother’s head out of the sand, and attempting to circumvent her parents’ worst abuses of power.

  But when her brother returned and took his place with his billionaire bride at his side, Sofia had felt unnecessary. Unneeded. So she’d left.

  She spun around in her chair to seek reassurance that this all wasn’t just her “delusion,” but the worry on Carmen Louisa’s face had her shutting her mouth. Her winery manager and lifelong mentor had entrusted Sofia with her life’s savings, several harvests of top-quality Tempranillo fruit, and her family’s reputation as legendary winegrowers. For so long, Sofia had been in the woman’s care. Now the woman was in hers.

  Sofia straightened in her desk chair and set her chin. “Okay,” she said, looking at Namrita. “What do we do?”

  “Well...” Namrita said. Her long pause and the way she stroked her bob told Sofia more than anything else how desperate things were. “Maybe this pro-mance wasn’t the way to go.”

  Sofia’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?” He was here. His feet had walked her winery. His hand had pruned her vines. She’d had to endure his voice and his touch and glimpses of him out of the corner of her eyes for the last week. Now Namrita was saying it was a mistake?

  “Maybe we ask Aish and the interns to leave and we launch again in six months on a quieter—”

  “No,” Sofia shot out angrily. She’d spent the last week running from one task to the next: checking the grapes then holding workshops for the interns then prepping the winery then writing scripts then faking two hours of sleep in her hospedería bed. She’d done everything Namrita had asked of her. “How can you suggest giving up?”

  Namrita looked surprisingly vulnerable for a woman in a Chanel blazer, a stack of pearl bracelets, and oversized ripped jeans. “I’ve let you down. I didn’t take seriously how hard this was going to be for you, and I asked you to do the one thing that was intolerable. If this fails, it’s my fault. You’ve worked too hard to fail.”

  Sofia was surprised by Namrita’s concern. The PR rep was an unrelenting whip cracker and Sofia resented every second she was forced away from harvest preparations to impress the unimpressionable and fake an attraction to a man she hated.

  Now she had to accept the responsibility that, no, she hadn’t done everything Namrita had asked of her.

  She’d actually lulled herself into believing that #A
ishia was going okay. Those images proved it wasn’t. And the world’s gaze was going to wander off her winery—her “purgatory” winery in her “backwater” kingdom—if she didn’t improve the view soon.

  “Mira, look,” Sofia said, raising her hands to clasp the women’s in her own. “I can fix this. I just need to give the interns a reason to stay. So what do we do?”

  Namrita gave her a grimace. “I need to find out which intern the press is talking to. I had no idea they were that unhappy.”

  Carmen Louisa nodded in agreement. “Manon has said nothing.” They’d all been encouraged by the way the French hotel executive had sought a friendship with Carmen Louisa. Having a second luxury hotel in the Monte besides Hospedería de Bodega Sofia would be a coup.

  The grower grimaced before she said, “I hate to suggest it, but maybe we allow Aish to lead some demonstrations in the field. I’ve been surprised by his wine knowledge.”

  Sofia fought her sneer. She was saved from answering when a door leading into the winery crashed open.

  “Sofia!” Aish yelled.

  She could hear Roman trying to stall him.

  “Dude.” Aish’s voice echoed through the winery. The processing facility was empty; employees and interns were taking a well-earned siesta after spending the morning prepping equipment for harvest. “The only way you’re keeping me from her is if you hog-tie me and lock me in my room.”

  Henry’s thick drawl was coming closer. “We can stuff him in a closet until everyone’s gone to bed.”

  She spun around in her chair as Aish came into view through the glass. When he saw Sofia, he charged forward, his manager, Roman, and Henry on his heels.

  The glass walls shook as he threw open the door. “Can you call off your fucking...”

  Abruptly, he stopped. Blinked. And stared at her from the doorway.

  In a black oxford shirt buttoned to his neck and rolled-up sleeves exposing his forearms, artfully faded jeans, and manicured black scruff he hadn’t been able to grow when he was twenty-one, he looked like he’d just walked off a Rolling Stone cover shoot.

  Feeling pinned by his gaze, she asked, “¿Qué?”

  “You’re wearing glasses.”

  She raised her hand to the round tortoiseshell frames on her face. “And?”

  “You didn’t used to need glasses,” he said. His stare was unapologetic. “You look hot as fuck.”

  “Man...” she heard Devonte groan as Roman and Henry each grabbed a shoulder.

  “Wait, fuck, I’m sorry...” They got him turned around as he struggled, a giant man between two titans.

  He should be sorry. But his base compliment had unwanted heat flaring through her. Aish always had a filthy mouth, no filter between his wants and his lips, and it had driven her crazy. She’d craved anything he commanded when he talked dirty.

  “Sofia, please, I’m sorry,” he called over his shoulder, almost at the door. “I saw that news story. We’ve got to figure out a way to make this work.”

  Namrita put a hand on her shoulder. Carmen Louisa leaned toward her ear. “El tiene razón. Escucha lo que tiene que decir.”

  He’s right. You should hear him out. Aish didn’t speak Spanish, so it was their go-to when he was nearby.

  The PR exec on Sofia’s right had put together a plan that successfully drew the world’s attention. The grower on her left depended on Sofia to steer that attention correctly. Sofia could prove to herself now that she was the princess her kingdom needed.

  “I know exactly how to make this work,” she said. Roman looked at her and she nodded. He let Aish go and the man shrugged out of Henry’s hold then turned around. For an instant, she met his sparkling gaze. “Follow my rules. Stick to the script.”

  She caught Aish’s struggle with patience before she unfocused her eyes. She looked-not-looked at him in a move she’d perfected.

  “The script’s not working, Sofia,” he said. She hated the way he kept repeating her name. “We can’t convince people of anything when we’re reciting lines and judging feet of distance and trying to remember which fucking elbow I can touch.”

  How dare he be frustrated with her. “You haven’t once tried.”

  “Yes I have.”

  “No you haven’t.” Her voice wanted to rise, but she forced it cool, shoved it like a hot iron into ice water. “You won’t even follow the simplest of my rules.”

  She pointed at his rolled-up sleeves.

  Rule 8: Aish Salinger will wear full sleeves and keep his tattoos covered in all spaces outside of his private quarters. He will resist unveiling himself to ‘explain’ his tattoos. For the purposes of hygiene, he will maintain a long-sleeve shirt at all times.

  When she’d seen the glimpse of him in the video, she hadn’t seen the details of his tattoos. But the ink running all over his torso and down his rangy arms had been instantly provocative, even when he’d looked too skinny and too pale. She didn’t want to be intrigued by what the ink drew across his velvety skin.

  And she shouldn’t be confronted by it in her own fucking kingdom, she wanted to shriek and pound against her desk.

  “It’s hot,” he said between his teeth. “Outside.”

  Sofia breathed through her nose. “You show up late for my workshops dressed for a music video. Are you taking this seriously at all?”

  “I show up late because I’m trying to memorize your script,” he said, voice rising. “And I’m working just as hard as everyone else even when I’m wearing leather. I’m doing my part, Sofia, and you’re still trying to punish me with your rules. They’re all stupid.”

  She made herself ice against the surge of anger.

  “I have been patient. I’ve asked politely. There were terms, and you agreed to them. So stop behaving like a child and do as I asked. Or we end this charade and I share my information with the press.”

  “You can threaten me.” His large hands gripped his hips. “You can refuse to look at me and ignore me and sic your brother and your bulldog on me full time—”

  “I’m more of a golden retriever,” Henry interjected.

  “Whatever you do,” Aish growled, “it doesn’t change the fact that this isn’t working. That news story is my problem, too. And it just announced that we’re not convincing anyone of anything. If everyone goes home, I’m also fucked.”

  His problem? How could he in any way compare his responsibilities to hers?

  She raised her chin regally. “It’s working just fine.”

  “Can everyone wait outside the office?” he asked.

  Jolted, she met his gaze. His eyes were dark, bearing down on her, his hands still gripping those swaggery hips.

  “Just gimme a few minutes,” he said. “Just stand outside the door.”

  When she looked at her brother, already shaking her head, she was shocked to see that Roman was considering it.

  “But the ground rules...” she said, heart racing. The most important rule.

  Aish Salinger will only speak to Princesa Sofia de Esperanza y Santos when it will benefit the arrangement. Therefore, there will be no personal interaction unless the media, the intern corps, tourists, or other public influencers are present. There will be no private, one-on-one conversation.

  Namrita, who Sofia had just begun thinking of as an ally, betrayed her. “Maybe it will be good for you to clear the air.”

  In Spanish, Carmen Louisa said, “We’ll be right outside the door; we can see everything going on.”

  She turned back to Henry, her only remaining support.

  He studied her, rubbed a hand across his mouth, then turned on a heel.

  Roman said, “You got five minutes.”

  Looking more than a little guilty, both Namrita, Carmen Louisa and Devonte followed him. They walked out and closed the door behind them.

  And then, for all intents a
nd purposes, Sofia was alone with Aish Salinger for the first time in ten years.

  She felt herself pressing back into her leather seat as he fell into the chair in front of her desk. He spread his knees, rested his elbows on them, entwined those long, tactile fingers. His hair glistened blue-black in her fluorescents as he stared at the floor. His scent reached her sensitive nose across the desk—seawater and sunlit air.

  “My uncle says hi,” he said to the floor.

  It was like he reached across the desk and took away her gun.

  Aish’s uncle, Justin Masamune, was one of the top winemakers in California and a champion of wine innovation at his Laguna Ridge Winery. As a Japanese-American in an industry with few minorities in the United States, he enjoyed bucking the system. He’d written Sofia’s recommendation letter for the University of Bordeaux and had provided her some info as she was planning the winery, which was how Aish had probably learned about it.

  Carmen Louisa was right; Aish did seem to know an uncomfortable amount about the wine industry. When they’d been together, he’d taken his uncle’s devotion and his easy access to a fascinating winery for granted.

  “Um...” Sofia stuttered, staring at Aish’s black hair. “Tell him hi.”

  “He’d love to come and support you but he won’t be able to get away. He’s doubled the number of vineyards he farms since you were there. He’s doubled the harvest crew, too. Asshole put bunk beds in the bunkhouse instead of enlarging the space.”

  When Aish raised his head, his grin and his dimple were like a sword through the middle of her.

  “He still makes me sleep out there when I piss him off. You can guess I sleep out there a lot.”

  Sofia’s heart jackhammered in her chest. She felt actual pain behind the bone. She didn’t want to share this memory lane with him. She didn’t want to know that he was involved with his uncle’s winery. She didn’t want to think about the bunkhouse and all the memories under its roof. She didn’t want...she didn’t want him here.

  She lurched to standing, her chair rolling back and smacking against the file cabinet. “What is this?” she spat. “What are you doing?”