Well, that was a lie—but it was only one time.
Alma Garcia.
His college sweetheart. That girl was fire. Physically, she was his dream girl. Waist-length straight black hair, curvy body with a tiny waist, dark eyes, big pouty lips. She was the only girl he had ever made his girlfriend, the only girl he had ever seen exclusively, the only girl he had ever loved.
And he had blown it.
Not by cheating—he wasn’t a cad. He was completely faithful until the day he’d said adiós. But with graduation looming, she had decided to stay in Sonoma and become a sommelier, and he had to return to San Diego. As much as he appreciated his four-year breakfrom living near his family, he missed them. He’d loved her with all his heart, but he was just too young to settle down. So, he broke up with Alma, citing long-distance and their ages, and had regretted it ever since.
Maybe that was why he had never had a relationship after that. No one could measure up to her. Top of her class, volunteered in her free time, first person her friends turned to in crisis. And those hips, man. And the way her lips quivered when he brought her to ecstasy.
He exhaled. Where was she now?
Over the years, he’d had to physically restrain himself from stalking her online. He’d blocked her on his socials—one flash of her long lashes and he would become hypnotized by her. And his college roommate, Santi, who lived in her county, knew better than to mention her whereabouts.
Last he had heard, she had passed her sommelier exam with flying colors, which wasn’t shocking. She was probably working at one of Napa’s top vineyards or at a restaurant in San Francisco. Maybe she was married to a wealthy vintner. Most guys wouldn’t be stupid enough to let a woman like Alma slip through their hands.
But Jaime didn’t need or want a long-term relationship. He was young—only twenty-five. Look at Ramón and Enrique—both of his brothers’ lives were now consumed by their women. They would rarely even hang out with him now.
Jaime was too young to settle down back then—and he was stilltoo young to even get into a serious relationship. He had to make his own mark in the world first.
Even so, his curiosity got the best of him.
He grabbed his phone and googled her name. Stupid LinkedIn popped up. He wasn’t dumb enough to click on that link, which would literally send a message to her stating that he was stalking her.
But he didn’t need to click. Her name flashed before him above her place of work.
Alma Garcia—owner of Mezcalifornia,
Marin County’s Hottest TequilaBar.
Chapter Two
Alma Garcia gazed out at the breathtaking landmarks in the distance. The Golden Gate, the Bay Bridge, and the Richmond–San Rafael Bridge surrounded her—each unique in their beauty and their horror. From the suicides on the Golden Gate, to the Bay Bridge collapsing in an earthquake, to the high winds forcing closures on the Richmond–San Rafael, the incredible views were tainted. But the tourists, homeowners, and businesspeople in Marin knew that having space with one of these engineering marvels in the background was priceless. And her business looked out on all three.
It was unfathomable to her that she, a poor girl from the Canal, not only operated but also owned the hottest tequila bar in Tiburon, one of the wealthiest communities in Marin County, California. Most days she felt like she was living in a dream, though she’d arrived here from nothing but hard work. And today, Alma neededto focus. The city’s top critic was coming into the restaurant. She had to be on her A game.
Especially since respect in the industry was what she lacked. Despite being a commercial success, the male-dominated liquorindustry looked down on her, often dismissing her as just a pretty face. She hadn’t earned their praise yet since she was relatively new to the tequila world. But was it too much to ask to not have the critics comment on her looks as they did in almost every review?
There was nothing she could do about that. She wasn’t going to change the way she dressed to prove herself.
As a female tequiladora in the male-dominated industry of alcohol, she was causally reminded that she was the odd woman out. Not only had she been the only female and the only Mexican sommelier in her courses at the Napa Valley Wine Academy, but she was also now the first female tequila master after an arduous apprenticeship in Mexico. But she’d embraced what some would see as a disadvantage. She had sought out other women leaders in the industry.
Women who harvested their own agave.
Women who bottled their own brands.
Women who distilled their own liquor.
Alma’s tequila bar was successful, even if she was constantly being mistaken as just some brand bimbo. Not that she could blame people who assumed she was a promoter—Alma was young, dressed sexy, and was as proud of her body as she was of her mind.
But now that Mezcalifornia was doing so well, she yearned for more. She was financially sound and professionally successful. She craved recognition from the leaders in the tequila industry. But even more, Alma wanted to truly make a difference in the lives ofothers—others who grew up like her and didn’t have the same opportunities. With budget cuts, rising housing costs, and the backlash against bilingual education in California, kids who grew up in her community today didn’t have the same opportunities that she had once had. She needed to change that.
She swiped the finest bottle of tequila from her bar and splashed it on her hands. Alma wore tequila the way most girls wore perfume. She inhaled the note—nothing like the pure scent of the world’s finest liquor—the sweetness from the vanilla, the spice from the pepper, and the heat from the smoke made her feel like she was on fire.
Her older brother, Carlos, waltzed into her bar like he owned the place, which he most certainly did not, though he might as well have. He often helped her out when she was short-staffed. He was a badass in his own right—a former Division I soccer player who now coached a youth club team in his community in San Rafael. Tall, dark, and handsome. And, like her, forever single.
“Hey sis. What’s up?”
