Chapter 3
Chapter three
My heart’s beating so fast I can barely catch my breath.
Santiago’s words linger between us: If you want silence, I’m good at silence. If you want company, I’m good at conversation too.
Something in the way he said it makes me comfortable. He isn’t pushing. He’s offering.
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. Vinedo 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 My father’s place was great, but outdated.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 fermenting grapes 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.
“Much better.” 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 I did.” 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’s not hitting on me. Or, if he is, this is a fling situation. Which means he’s probably a no-go for me.
Not probably. Definitely.
Thankfully, the flight attendants arrive with bedding so we can settle into our makeshift beds. Once we’re reclined side-by-side, the romantic confessions are put to the side and we seamlessly shift into a more neutral, yet lively discussion about our love of food and wine.
When I admit I can’t stand over-oaked Chardonnay, he clutches his chest like I’ve wounded him mortally.
We cover our favorite cities, food, travel.
He needles me about Tacoma, I jab at his sommelier pretension.
He’s witty, goofy and self-depreciating.
When he describes teaching wine seminars in Lyon, he exaggerates his students’ awe until I’m laughing so hard I have to cover my mouth to avoid annoying the rest of the first-class cabin.
It’s a moment before I realize the sound of my own laugher has startled me. I can’t remember the last time utter joy bubbled up unplanned before I could smother it.
I shake my head, grinning despite myself. “I’ve never spoken this much to a stranger.”
“You don’t seem like a stranger.” His smile is genuine, almost like it’s meant for me.
His words slip under my skin, leaving me breathless.
I should rebuild the wall, put space back between us. Instead, I lean closer, reckless. “Me either.”
As we lie side by side facing each other, I have no idea how much time has passed.
Except for our quiet conversation and the faint thrum of engines, the cabin is quiet.
Around us, people sleep, oblivious to the fact my world has folded to fit inside two lie-flat leather seats in the first-class cabin.
Dangerous.
Subtly, I study him. Santiago has broad shoulders and elegant hands. His dark hair falls perfectly out of place and his eyes remain steady on me like I’m worth the attention. He’s present. Attentive. Interested in me.
“You know,” I whisper. “Based on first impressions, I thought you’d be different.”
He rests his head on his hand. “Different how?”
“When you sat down, I pegged you for a player. You come across so polished. I figured you’d be the kind of guy who seduces with vintages and perfect pours.”
“And now?”
I bite my lip. “Your life is actually fascinating. Enviable. Best of all, when it comes to food and wine, you’re nerdy like me. In a delightful way.”
His laugh is gleeful, genuine. “Nerdy?”
“When we first started talking, I thought you were going to sell me a tour or something.”
He groans, rubbing his forehead, but he’s smiling. “Failure.”
“Oh, you redeemed yourself.” I can’t help stop the words from slipping out. It’s my Achilles heel. I’m honest as a cut.
His smile fades into something deeper, slower. He doesn’t move, doesn’t crowd me. He just looks at me. Waits.
I should stop here. Instead, curiosity overwhelms me. “For someone so worldly, how did you end up with a condo in Seattle?”
A flicker of something crosses his face. “When I left New York after my divorce, I needed a drastic change. Seattle is close enough to Europe, far enough from the noise. And the rain… I actually love. It slows you down whether you want it to or not.”
I hear the truth underneath. He’s a man who needed saving from his own momentum.
We have this in common.
For the first time in my life, I have instant connection.
Damn it, I don’t want this night to ever end.
I tip my head, steady and strong. “Tell me how…”