Chapter 8 Kick #2
I wanted to marry her—the realization settled into me without fanfare. Not because of the baby—or not only because of the baby. I wanted to wake up like this every morning. I wanted to be the person she trusted enough to fall asleep beside.
But I couldn’t tell her that. Not yet. She’d assume it was an obligation. Duty. The honorable thing, as she’d said last night with an edgy tone.
So I’d wait. We’d spend time together. Get to know each other again. The way we’d started to before the night we spent together in October. And maybe, if I did this right, she’d fall in love with me the way I was beginning to suspect I’d already fallen for her.
Beginning to suspect. I almost laughed at myself.
My feelings for Isabel were tangled up in everything—the baby, the history, the way she’d looked at me in that hospital room like I might actually be someone worth trusting.
No one got her like I did. No one even saw her the way I did.
That had to count for something. Actually, it should count for everything.
And maybe it wasn’t love or even something that could become love, or just the overwhelming reality of everything we were facing together. But I wanted to find out.
She stirred against me, then went still.
“Kick?” Her voice was rough with sleep.
“I’m here.”
She lifted her head, blinking. Confusion crossed her face as she took in our position—my arm around her, her body pressed to mine, me still dressed in the clothes from last night.
“We fell asleep,” I said. “Both of us. I meant to go to the guest room, but…”
“You stayed.”
“I stayed.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Not anger. Not the wall she usually put up. “I’m glad you did.”
Four words that shouldn’t have meant so much, but they did.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
She shifted, pressing a hand to her stomach. “Okay. No pain.”
“Good.” I made myself release her, sit up, and give her space even though my every instinct wanted her closer. “What do you want to do this morning?”
“I need to tell Thomas that I’m pregnant.” She pushed herself up against the pillows.
“I can come with you if you’d like.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I need to do this alone. He hired me. He deserves to hear it from me without—” She gestured between us. “Without complications.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to be there in case Whitmore reacted badly, in case she needed backup. But this wasn’t my call to make.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll support whatever you want to do.”
The look she gave me was searching, like she was testing whether I meant it. “You don’t have to wait around.”
“Isabel.” I caught her hand. “Where am I gonna go if I don’t stay here?”
She shrugged, then smiled. “Is it too early for me to blame stupid questions on being pregnant?”
“I’d take that pass every chance I got if I were you. Does it count for expectant fathers too?”
This time, she laughed as she got out of bed and went through a door I saw led to the bathroom.
After she left, the cottage felt too quiet.
I made coffee with what I found in her kitchen—a French press, beans that smelled expensive—and stood at the window, watching the morning mist burn off the vineyard rows.
My phone sat on the counter. I picked it up, scrolled to Snapper’s name, and stopped.
He’d want to know. All my brothers would. But the baby wasn’t my news to share—it was Isabel’s. Until she gave me permission to tell people, I’d keep my mouth shut. Even with Snapper. Even though keeping something this big from him went against everything the Avilas stood for.
I typed out a text instead. I’m with Isabel. Baron knows she’s safe.
My phone rang almost immediately with a call from him, but I let it go to voicemail.
He’d have questions I couldn’t answer. Where are you? What’s going on? And I wasn’t ready to lie to my brother or explain why I couldn’t tell him the truth.
The phone buzzed with an alert. I ignored it.
Twenty minutes later, the front door opened.
Isabel looked…lighter. Some of the tension she’d been carrying had eased from her shoulders.
“Well?” I asked.
“He was kind.” She crossed to the kitchen, and I poured her a cup of coffee before remembering. “Actually—”
“I can have one cup.” She took it and wrapped her hands around the mug. “He said he’d already suspected something was going on. That I’d been off.”
“And?”
“He told me to focus on the marketing director position—if I feel up to it. No pressure. No timeline.”
“That’s good.”
“He also said he’d like to meet with you.”
I set down my own cup. “Me?”
“He asked if you were planning to stay. I told him I didn’t know.” Her eyes met mine. “Are you?”
“You know I am.” No hesitation. “As long as you’ll have me.” By that, I meant forever, but I didn’t want her to drop her coffee in shock and burn herself.
She looked away, but not before I caught her smile.
“He’s in the production building. Between here and the main house.” She paused. “He said as soon as possible, if you’re willing.”
The production building was a long, low structure with corrugated metal siding that had been weathered to a soft gray. Nothing like the Spanish-style architecture of Avila Estate, but solid and functional.
Thomas Whitmore stood at a stainless-steel tank, making notes on a clipboard. He looked up when I entered.
“Kick Avila.” He set the clipboard down and extended his hand. “I’m sure we’ve met in passing a time or two.”
His grip was firm, and his gaze direct. He was maybe sixty, with silver hair and the kind of face that had seen too much sun and didn’t apologize for it.
“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “And, if I may, I’d like to thank you for taking care of Isabel.”
His smile was warm. “She takes care of herself. I just gave her a place to do it.” He gestured toward a small room in the corner. “Walk with me.”
The office was cluttered but organized with stacks of papers, harvest reports, and a whiteboard covered in production schedules. He closed the door and rested against the desk.
“I’ll get straight to it. Are you planning to stick around?”
“Yes.”
“Even if she tells you to leave?”
“She won’t.” I held his gaze. “But if she did, I’d find somewhere nearby.”
He studied me for several seconds, then his shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch and he uncrossed his arms—small shifts, but I read them clearly enough. I’d passed some kind of test.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Anticipating this conversation, actually. You’re an Avila. Your family’s been making wine in Paso Robles for generations. You’ve got knowledge I don’t have and connections I can’t buy.”
“What are you proposing?”
“Consulting work. Think of it as a strategic partnership.” He moved around the desk and lifted a folder from one of the stacks. “Whitmore is good, but we could be better. I want to expand our distribution and refine our reserve program. I could use someone who knows this industry from the inside.”
I’d come prepared for a protective father figure telling me to stay away from Isabel, not a job offer.
“I’m not looking for charity,” I said.
“Good. I’m not offering it.” A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I’m offering work. Fair compensation. And something to keep yourself busy while you’re here. After that, all I can tell you is, sleep while you can.”
I chuckled. “You speak from experience.”
“Five times, in fact. I’d tell you that you sleep more once they’re older, but I’d be lying.”
“I’m sure my mom would agree.”
“So, what do you think?”
“I’m definitely interested,” I said. “I’m not sure what I can bring to the table, but I’ll help in any way I can.”
“Good.” He set down the folder and opened the office door. “We’ll talk details once you’ve had a chance to settle in.”
The sun was high in the sky when I left the production building.
The vineyard stretched out in front of me, winter-bare but well-tended.
I’d never worked anywhere other than Los Caballeros, and I was by far the lowest person on the sibling totem pole.
It might be nice to have the chance to offer an opinion to someone who would value it in a way I doubted my brothers would.
I was halfway back to the cottage when I passed Bas heading toward the production building. He gave me a short nod—the kind you give a stranger, not someone you’d met the day before—and kept walking.
My phone rang with a call from Tryst before I made it back to the cottage.
I almost let it go to voicemail the way I had Snapper’s. But Tryst wouldn’t reach out without a reason.
“Hey.”
“Kick.” His tone was even and unhurried, like it always was. “I heard you found Isabel.”
“I did, and I’m sticking around.”
“Good.” A pause. “Baron’s been in touch. He’s not happy about being kept in the dark.”
“I told him she was safe. That’s all he needs to know right now.”
“I agree. But he doesn’t see it that way.” He exhaled slowly. “He’s called a meeting. He wants the caballeros to find you both.”
My stomach dropped. “And?”
“And nothing’s been decided yet. But I wanted you to hear it from me first.”