“I know, but we need to reassess all of our agricultural relationships. I want us to contract with ethical operations only. The owner of this farm is amazing. She used to work on the farm herself with her parents and recently acquired it when it went up for sale. She raised the money through speaking engagements around the country and educating others about farmworkers’ rights. She was just named one ofTimemagazine’s most influential Hispanics.”
Julieta opened her mouth. “Can we please use the wordLatines? It’s more inclusive.”
Jesus. “Not the point. I’m not going to get into the Latino/Latine/Latinx/Hispanic semantics game.”
“She?” Rosa asked, curiosity lacing her voice. Rosa was pretty and strong, like her cousin.
“Yes, she. Carolina Flores is one of the top female farmers in the state. She owns Flores Family Farm in Santa Maria. Make that one of the top farmers, period.”
Jaime looked up from scrolling through his phone. “Carolina Flores? Isn’t she the girl who had those viral graduation photos in the strawberry patch?”
Enrique nodded. “That’s the one.”
Tiburón interjected. “Flores? Any relation to Señora Flores at the café next door?”
Julieta rubbed her fiancé’s arm. “Yeah. Luísa Flores is her aunt, but from what she told me, she isn’t close to them.”
Enrique scratched his chin. “Really? I didn’t know that.” He had met Señora Flores many times—he was a sucker for her freshly baked conchas—but he had no idea she was related to Carolina.
Ramón pursed his lips and glared intently at his brother. “Okay, I thought we talked about this. You know Apá reached out to her father a couple of years ago with disastrous consequences when the Flores family bought the farm. Victor Flores does not want to distribute to us.”
Enrique smirked. “Right, you told me that, but it’s his daughter’s farm, not his.”
Tiburón chuckled.
Enrique glared at him. “Something funny?”
“Nope. Just that you clearly don’t understand the dynamic of a traditional first-generation Mexican family. It doesn’t matter if she owns it, not him. He’s her papá.”
Enrique gulped. Nothing was more accurate. He was a third-generation Mexican-American. He didn’t have a clue what it was like to be raised in his culture. “True, I don’t. But she seems to be a savvybusinesswoman. And Señor Flores said no when he only knew Papá. He doesn’t knowus, and I arranged a meeting with her, not him. She’s in charge now, though you’re right—he could still be involved in the decision-making. And you only talked to him on the phone. Ramón, I’ve done my research. Señor Flores is a family man—he’s old-school. He’s nothing like Apá, and neither are we. I’m going to go there in person, spend some time with her, get them to trust us. And Carolina wrote me a nice email back. She invited us to her farm. Maybe she will accept our proposal with her father’s approval. The options are endless.”
“Options?” Julieta rolled her eyes. “What’s your plan? Start contracting with them and then buy out their farm like you bought our block?”
Enrique gritted his teeth, but at least her tone was teasing, not serious.
Ramón pinched Julieta. “Come on, babe. I made it right, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.” She scrunched her face, and she and Ramón rubbed noses.
Another wave of uneasiness hit Enrique. He couldn’t imagine being so in love that he would be so affectionate in public.
Jaime tossed a bacon-wrapped, chorizo-stuffed jalapeño popper drenched in chipotle crema into his mouth. “I’ll come with you. I love Santa Barbara. We can stay at Apá’s house in Montecito for Christmas.”
Enrique shook his head. Nope. Montecito was the celebrity enclave of Santa Barbara, and definitely not his scene. Enrique had already rented a hotel room on West Beach near downtown because he had no desire to stay at their father’s vacation home, though he loved the view and the beach access. Why did his father need another home in the middle of the state? Apá had bought it when Enrique had been accepted to Cal Poly. He had claimed it was an investment, butkeeping a multimillion-dollar estate empty seemed ridiculous. If Enrique had the opportunity to get to know Carolina, he did not want her to realize his father just wasted money, especially because she came from such humble beginnings.
But the house wasn’t even half the problem. Enrique didn’t want his baby brother tagging along. This was a serious trip for Enrique to make a name for himself in the company without his brothers, without his father. The last thing he needed was Jaime nagging him to go party every night and hitting on one of Señor Flores’s ten daughters—especially Carolina.
What an impressive woman she was. She had worked on the farm her entire life while maintaining a top grade point average and dancing with the local Ballet Folklórico group. Her parents had taken her with them every day to pick berries in the fields—rain or shine, no matter if they were scorched by the rays of the sun or frozen by the chill of the night. She would work in the evenings until the wee hours, sleep for a brief time, wake up, and go back to school. She was accepted to Cal Poly San Luis Obispo, which was no easy task. For college graduation, she had hired a photographer to take pictures of herself in her cap and gown, picking produce with her parents to honor their hard work and sacrifices. When her sister Blanca had posted them online, those photos went viral. The media attention had catapulted her career and made her an in-demand speaker at Hispanic events around the United States. And when her farm was for sale a couple of years ago, she’d raised enough money to buy it.
Enrique was in complete awe of her.
But she had a complex reputation around the farm-owning community. She definitely treated her employees right, but there had been rumblings that she was ruthless. A shrew... d businesswoman. That she didn’t hesitate to tell off distributors or fire long-term staff members who weren’t pulling their weight.
Enrique didn’t believe any of that nonsense. When Ramón was cutthroat in his business, people hailed him, not demonized him. How misogynistic and frankly racist for these rich non-Hispanic farm owners to give a hard time to one of the only Mexican-American female proprietors in the state, or in the country, for that matter.
Enrique had seen a picture of the entire family on the Flores Family Farm website. All the daughters were beautiful, especially Carolina. Her long, dark curly hair, huge brown eyes, and those curves.Man.
But no matter how smart, successful, and sexy Carolina was, Enrique was not interested in her romantically. At all.
