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Helping my kids tickle my brother—and ensuring he got the tiny steak—had been the most fun I’d had in a long time. Things had never been that relaxed back at my in-laws place, even when Andrea had been alive. Dinners had been full of tension, with the twins expected to be quiet and have good manners. Some bullshit about children being seen and not heard. I’d tried to argue about it with both Andrea and her parents to let them be kids, but they always said it was their house and their rules.
So many times I’d wanted to leave and take the twins with me. But then Andrea would threaten me with a custody battle, knowing she had my balls in a vise. Her parents were powerful people in the Central Valley. Judges, cops, politicians, you named it, her mother’s family had a connection with them all.
Only Andrea’s death had given me a chance to escape.
And to finally see Avery and Wyatt laughing and acting like children should with my family? It warmed my heart. Despite all the shit and trouble and pain I’d caused by bringing them to Starry Hills, it had definitely been the right decision.
However, then my brother ruined my mood by telling me I had to work at a wedding expo in Reno. If there was a better version of hell for me, I couldn’t think of it.
Only because Beck was giving me something he probably would’ve done himself six months ago made me begrudgingly agree to it. Still didn’t mean I had to like it.
Somehow I made it through dessert and the bedtime routine with my kids. The next day, however, after I finished checking the construction progress of our bottling facility, I went in search of a new project on Emilia’s land.
Not because her expression at seeing the calving barn restored, with her lovely brown eyes wide and her lips parted in surprise, had poked at my frozen heart. Definitely not. Rather, it was more how the experience and talking about repairs had helped bring me and my kids together.
To hear Wyatt ask about tools and tell me what he wanted to make eventually—a bookshelf for his sister, since she loved books—still made me smile.
But first, I needed a project where I could take my time teaching my son and daughter. There were too many people visiting the winery in the summer to find something there. Emilia’s place was perfect for it.
Since I vaguely remembered an old storage building from when I was younger, where Mateo Mendoza—Emilia and Rafe’s dad—had kept a small office, I headed in that direction. The building was a little away from the barn and main house, hidden behind some trees. It was a faded red—they had loved red buildings here—and had seen better days. Some of the paint was chipped, and the huge doors on the front of it, where machines and trucks could enter, hung lopsided.
Apart from the big doors, there was a smaller one off to the side. I went to it and tested the handle, but to my surprise, it turned. If Emilia locked it normally, then maybe someone had broken in. At the thought of danger being so close to her house, worry churned my stomach.
Opening the door inch by inch, relieved to find it didn’t squeak, I tried to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer light. The space was mostly empty, apart from what looked like stacked chairs and tables, probably something Emilia used for her weddings. I didn’t hear anything to suggest someone was inside, so I crept carefully, keeping my eyes and ears out for the slightest movements or noise.
It was only as I approached the small office in the corner that I noticed light coming from under the door. I didn’t have any tools with me, but I picked up a stray piece of wood on the ground. With one hand holding the wood and the other on the door, I waited for a noise.
Then I heard it—someone was crying.
Confused, I slowly opened the door and found Emilia sitting in a chair, her face in her hands, sobbing as if the world was about to end.
Tossing the wood away, I crept up to her. Crying women weren’t my strong suit, but I had to do something. Because each sob was a stab to my heart.
I crouched down next to her and asked softly, “Emilia, what’s wrong?”
She jumped in her seat, and her head shot up. The sight of her puffy eyes, tears rolling down her cheeks, squeezed my heart. She blurted, “What are you doing here?”
“I was looking for a new project. But don’t change the subject—what’s wrong?” When she hesitated, I growled. “Did someone hurt you?”
Her gaze left mine and rested on something to the side. It was only then that I noticed the room was set up exactly as it had been when I was a kid, as if time had stood still, and there was a picture of the Mendoza family on the desk. Rafe had to be about eighteen, Emilia eight or nine, and their parents stood behind them. Everyone smiled as Rafe held up his jersey, the one for the first soccer team he’d ever signed with.
Silence lingered, and I tried to think of what I could do. I’d become an expert in dealing with my late wife’s temper, lies, and dramatic actions. But this? Tears and sadness and silence? I was way out of my fucking depth.
Eventually, Emilia whispered, “It’s my mom’s birthday today.”
Ah, fuck.My first instinct was to hug her and try to reassure her like when my kids were upset. But would that be crossing a line?
Emilia then added, “My mom should be here, not me.”
I frowned. “We don’t get to decide that shit, Emilia, no matter how much we might want to control our own fate.”
Her voice broke as she said, “Don’t call me that.”
“Why?”
“Because my parents did. A-and it hurts. So much.” Her gaze met mine. “Because it’s all my fault.”
She started sobbing again.
