Page 23 of Out of Control

Cruz hangs up and I’m left lost in my thoughts.

I feel like a traitor.

Isn’t that just like being a woman to feel guilty for taking pleasure in something?

“My Sofia,” el patriarca says.

“Yes?” I move toward him, thinking he needs me to get something for him. His nurse is usually at his side but I told her to let us have some time alone. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen him, and I want this time.

“Sit.” He pats the arm of his wheelchair to reinforce his words.

“What is it?” I turn to face him. “What do you need?”

“No more talk of the festival, si? You went, you had fun, but it’s not preferred to have you speak of your . . . exploits. We are Navarros. We have a standard to uphold. We have a reputation to maintain. There are expectations we must exceed.”

And yet Cruz could fuck around and all was fine.

I bite my tongue and nod.

“I was talking with Emilio the other week while you were off in America.”

“With all due respect, el patriarca, I have no interest in dating his grandson regardless of how good his pedigree is.” The only way I get away with rolling my eyes is because they’re hidden behind sunglasses. “I love you. I’d do almost anything to make you happy and proud of me, but that is not one of them.”

His sigh settles in the quiet between us until he speaks again. “This stuff you were talking about. Does that have to do with this hobby of yours . . .”

“It’s not a hobby. It’s what I want to do. Open a gallery. Showcase artists.” I pause, needing to make sure my voice doesn’t sound like I’m pleading for him to understand. His blessing to proceed and not piss off the delicate family balance is all I’m asking for. And it’s one step closer than I’ve ever come to actually doing this. “It’s a passion that I’ve always had. Just like your racing was a form of art, this is mine in a sense.”

He nods. “But you’re not making it.”

“No. I’m showcasing it so others can see it. Can fall in love with it. If I made it, I assure you no one would show up to look at anything.”

He chuckles. “True. Do you remember that time you—”

“No.” I laugh and reach out and pat his hand. “We don’t need to rehash all the ways Sofia tried to be an artist only to fail miserably. At least I have one thing in common with all the Navarro men.”

“What’s that?”

“I know how to stay in my lane.”

His laugh is deep, one of the things I love best. “That’s my girl.” He pats my hand back. “That’s my girl.”

But he never gives me his blessing on it. He never tells me it’s a good idea. He never says do what you love, Sofia. He just nods quietly and then looks back toward the fields that generations of Navarros have stared at.

We sit beside each other on the patio watching the butterflies flit around the flowers in the garden and the rabbits nibble on the clover.

It’s quaint and peaceful but pressure builds in my chest. Over who I am. Who I want to be. And a longing to reclaim that carefree feeling from my time in America.

It’s been three weeks since those nights.

Three weeks where I’ve jumped head first into looking at rental spaces and contacting artists to see if I can showcase their pieces in my soon-to-be gallery.

Three weeks of being brought back to the reality of what’s expected of me as Sofia Navarro of Spain’s elite Navarros.

Days of being in nonstop motion and thought, but when I lie down in my bed at night, I wonder if Rossi thinks of me like I do him.

For a man who followed me around like a stalker, it’s amazing how that stopped when he got up from the bed that morning. The minute he got what he wanted.

But isn’t that what I’m struggling with? It’s what we both wanted. Both agreed to. And yet I haven’t heard a word from him.