5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Vicente Godoy
T oday felt incredibly long. Between the three-hour time difference with London my brand-new assistant and not thinking she needed to have everything online for me to access, it was a nightmare.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to give her the six-month trial period. I need someone professional—and anyone who signs off emails with Let’s boogie, boss! is definitely not it.
“Vicente, hijo . How’s everything going?” I hear my father’s voice once I hit answer on my phone.
“Hello, Father. It's going. How’s Italy?” I say, sagging into the chair.
I used his studio as my office today. It feels surreal to think that, in the near future, this will be my actual office. I’m not sure how to feel about it.
On one hand, it’d be nice to keep things as traditional as possible—to run the business from the hacienda, like my father does, like Abuelo Henry did.
On the other hand, it would be nice to create my own space. Maybe a farmhouse-style office—something new to add to the vineyard. A place that feels like mine .
But would my father like the idea? Or would he frown upon and call it an unnecessary change?
I push the thought aside. I can think about all this stuff after I decide whether I want to take charge of the vineyard.
“It’s going great,” my father says. "We just finished getting ready to go out for dinner with Isabella and Gabo.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re enjoying your free time,” I reply, though I can hear the venom in my tone.
I could be fine dining in London right now, helping Owen close the deal we discussed. Instead, I’m stuck in a village in a small town.
“Listen, hijo . I don’t want to take much of your time. I just wanted to ask you to please listen to Fernando, talk with the workers. Figure out what we can do better and more efficiently at the vineyard.”
“It’s interesting you mentioned that, Father. When Fernando picked me up at the airport last night, he said he wanted me to check on a few things. I looked at the numbers today, and everything seems to be in order. We are even on track to make two percent more profit than last year’s harvest.”
“ Hijo , listen to me. Not everything in this life is about numbers and profits. Listen to the people. See what we can improve.”
His voice softens, almost pleading, and for the life of me, I cannot comprehend who is on the other end of the line. Is this really the same man who raised me? The one who drilled into my brain the idea that when my time came, I needed to build on his legacy and take Hacienda Carmen to the next level of greatness? Why is he talking about not caring about profit anymore?
Not wanting to prolong the call, I assure him I’ll do as he asks. After a million goodbyes from everyone in Italy, we hang up.
Once dinner is finished, I open a bottle of Elegant , my favorite wine from our vineyard. It is a mix of cabernet franc and carménère grapes, cold-pressed separately for five days. As I uncork the bottle, strong notes of blueberries and blackberries fill the air. I inhale deeply, savoring the fruity aroma. With a full glass in hand, I take my wine to the terrace.
As soon as it touches my tastebuds, a pleasant smile spreads across my lips. It’s soft and decadent. I've had bottles worth thousands of pounds, but none will ever come close to this one.
The weather this time of year is beautiful. The air is cool with a faint breeze that rustles the vines. Crickets chirp in the distance, creating a symphony I haven’t enjoyed in a long time.
Every time I come back here, I’m always in a hurry—constantly working despite being “off.” I need to make time to catch up with Fernando and hear what’s on his mind. I also need to meet with every single employee. With over a hundred workers, it’s going to take forever.
Maybe I could do small hearings instead? No, “hearings” sounds like they did something wrong, and I’m the judge. Maybe this is a task I can delegate to Camila and see what she comes up with.
Taking another sip, I let the wine fill my taste buds and close my eyes, getting comfortable in my chair. My mind drifts to my new assistant. Her voice was bright and sweet. Maybe that’s why I was such an arsehole to her today? I’m allergic to kindness, and she definitely sounded too nice, too chirpy for my liking.
I take my phone out of my pocket, thinking about how to ask Camila to set up these meetings with my employees. It’s not her fault she’s new. But things were so easy with Mrs. Evans—she anticipated my thoughts before I even voiced them. We made a great team.
From: Vicente Godoy “ [email protected] ”
To: Camila Flores “ [email protected] ”
Date: March 17, 2025. 10:21 pm
Subject: Conferences set up
Camila,
While in Chile, I’ve decided to meet with each of the vineyard employees. I need you to set up the meetings next week, in the mornings. It makes more sense to move all the London meetings to the afternoon.
I’ll be waiting for the schedule.
V. Godoy
Head of the Godoy Group
London, Alamo Peaks
My finger hovers over the send button, but I can’t bring myself to do it. What is going on?
You want to hear her voice again, dickwit .
I release a deep exhale. I’ve only heard her voice once—so why am I so intrigued?
She has an accent—definitely Hispanic. The way she rolls her r’s is a dead giveaway, but I can’t place where she’s from.
And what does she look like? Is she pretty? Hot?
I should have checked her resume—maybe I’ll do that in the morning. Or maybe not . I have no business thinking about my assistant like this. That would be harassment, and I’m not about to get sued because, at thirty-five, I’m still thinking with my dick.
Shutting off my phone, I decide to call Camila first thing in the morning and be more explicit about the meetings I need her to set up. Shaking my head, I catch myself smirking. Have I always been so full of shit ?
I take another sip of wine, chuckling at myself. Time to get some rest.
I wake up at exactly four in the morning. Rubbing my eyes, I stretch out on the bed and roll side to side as my heart pounds in my chest. Suddenly, I feel very warm and need to get out of bed.
Needing to cool down, I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face.
Why am I awake so early?
Because you can’t wait to hear her voice.
Checking myself in the mirror, I notice my hair is disheveled. It’s not a video conference, so I go back to my room, pick up the phone, and dial the office number.
Instead of her sweet voice greeting me, an automated message plays: You have reached Mr. Godoy’s executive assistant line. Please hold while I transfer your call .
What the hell? Why is my call being transferred? And where?
“Good morning, Camila speaking. How can I help you today?”
Oh, there it is—her sweet, chirpy voice rings in my ear, and I can’t help the relief that washes over me. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but hearing her somehow puts me at ease.
“Good morning, Camila. Why was the call transferred? What’s going on?”
“Oh, Mr. Godoy. Hi. Well, I can’t be in the office until nine. Since you requested that I start working at seven, I thought I could do remote work for an hour before I head to the office.”
I wasn’t expecting that answer, but I can value her sense of commitment.
“And why can’t you be in the office? I’m not sure this is going to work, Ms. Flores,” I say flatly, despite thinking it’s a good compromise.
What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s like I can’t help but behave like an arsehole with her.
“With all due respect, Mr. Godoy, my contract specifies that I’m required at work from nine in the morning to six in the afternoon. Since I’m an executive assistant and you are currently out of the country, I figured I'd oblige and extend my working hours to be more efficient. But if you think you can demand that I be at your beck and call, you are sorely mistaken. I can quit if that’s your take.”
Oh wow, she has spunk. I like that—a lot. Any other employee would be squirming about and asking for forgiveness. Maybe I misjudged her.
I clear my throat. “Good, I’m glad we have clarified your commitment to the company and to your job. The reason I called is to explain a project I need you to lead.”
I go over the meetings I need scheduled and their timing. She hums and says, “Yes, Mr. Godoy,” over and over until I’m done speaking.
I’m about to hang up when that chirpy tone returns. “Oh, and Mr. Godoy? I've updated your calendar through the end of the month and prepared all the files for this week’s meetings. Have an amazing day. Let’s boogie!”
For some reason, I can picture her smirking as she says it. The line disconnects before I can reply with a shitty comeback.
Leaning back in my chair, I decide it’s time to take a look at who Camila Flores really is.
First, I look over her resume. A Bachelor’s in Business from a university in Medellín, Colombia—so that’s where she’s from, huh? Interesting . She’s been in the UK for over six years. Single. Has a daughter.
Nice touch—Mrs. Evans, slipping details about her private life. It definitely gives me a better understanding of the woman she hired.
What’s the story there?
Then I see her badge picture.
Damn . The image hits me like a thousand bricks.
The woman is stunning. Long hazelnut hair cascades down her shoulders in soft waves, framing her delicate face. Her deep brown eyes are unreadable, almost mysterious. And although she’s wearing makeup, it’s subtle—she looks fresh and professional.
Not like the women I’m used to going out with.
Why am I even thinking about going out with her? That’s flat out unprofessional.
Shaking the thought from my head, I shut off my phone. Instead of obsessing over Camila Flores, I decide to go over the files she’s prepared for the week.
I also make a mental note to check on Owen. Coming to Chile has definitely put a pause on a lot of my plans, and I need to make sure nothing is slipping through the cracks.