My whole life runs on demands, commands, expectations. A subtle invitation is…rare.
“I’ll take the company.”
His mouth curves, not a smirk, or polished charm. Steady. Happy.
It unnerves me more than a perfect, toothy grin ever could.
Around us, strangers settle in for the night, burrowing under blankets flicking through which movie they’ll fall asleep to. The two of us recline our seats to flat and turn toward each other.
The world narrows to the two of us in our wide, plush seats and a single conversation.
I tip my chin toward him. “So. Viñedo Hospitality. You cofounded it?”
He nods, fingers resting loose on the armrest. “In New York. A few of us believed we could build wine programs better than what we saw. We blinked and two decades later, we realized we were international.” A dry smile. “Growth was relentless. I lived in airports. Slept in cellars. My marriage ended somewhere in the middle.”
His bluntness makes me blink. Most men coat their romantic history in lacquer. Or, blame the woman. He sets his down raw,owning his part.
“Do you miss her?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His pause is brief, but real. “I miss what we could have been if I’d learned how to balance my life more.”
The honesty cuts sharper than the confession itself. “I get it. Delgado Cocina nearly broke me before it saved me. My father’s place was great, but outdated. I stripped it to the bones and convinced him to let me build something new. Everyone thought I’d lost my mind. Now we’re successful and my folks are essentially retired. Most nights? I collapse alone.”
“Do you regret it?” His eyes bore into mine
I breathe out slowly. “Some days. Not always. I love it. I hate it. It’s mine.”
“Yes.” He nods once, certain. “The only way anything worth keeping is built.”
The words land, loosening something in me I didn’t realize had been locked. “Before New York? Where did you learn wine?”
“La Rioja.” His expression shifts, softer. “My father’s family vineyard. I spent every summer sticky with grape juice. Winters were freezing cold in the cellars. I left at eighteen. First Barcelona. Then Bordeaux. Even though they sold it long ago, the smell of fermentinggrapes clings to me. Sometimes I think it lives in my skin.”
The picture he paints hits me full in the chest. I envision a young Santiago, dark hair tangled, running through rows of vines, soles dusted, palms stained purple. A man carved by earth before elegance touched him.
“Wow. It sounds…” I search. “Alive.”
His smile is coy. “And you? Where did you first learn to love food?”
“In my parents’ kitchen. My mother’s hands buried in dough, my father hovering over paella. My sister, Marcella sneaking olives like it was a sport. Food was the language we all understood.”
“Better than boys?” His tone teases me, but the question sits heavier underneath, considering my abysmal track record.
“Muchbetter.” My laugh comes sharp, surprising me. “Food doesn’t cheat. Or ghost. Or drink too much. I seem to collect men who need saving.”
“Do you want to fix them?” He quirks a brow.
“I guess Idid.” I stiffen because it’s hard to admit. “So stupid. I’ve been burned, for sure. Fire can look beautiful until it leaves scars, right?”
Santiago doesn’t flinch or fill the quiet with comfort. He lets my confession breathe for a bit before he replies. “Maybe you should try someone who doesn’t want or need saving.”
The air between us changes. Is he hitting on me? It’s been so long, I’ve lost the ability to tell. My pulse jumps like a warning I don’t want to heed.
“And you?” I’m compelled to redirect to his personal life since I confessed so much of mine. “Have you dated much after your marriage broke up?”
“No.” His reply comes without hesitation. “One-night stands leave me hollow. Relationships? I failed at the one that mattered. It’s hard to believe I’d ever be successful again, given my current schedule.”
Huh. So, he’snothitting on me. Or, if he is, this is a fling situation. Which means he’s probably a no-go for me.
