Page 5

“Come say hi to your mother,” she says, opening her arms wide.
Carla Godoy is class personified. Draped in a soft peach satin pantsuit, she looks both flawless and ready to take care of business.
Her chestnut hair and brown eyes are identical to mine. At five foot eight, she’s tall for a Chilean woman, her slim, poised figure just adds to her effortlessly perfect vibe.
Just like everything else about her.
I bend to hug her, and she pulls me in tight.
“When did you get so tall, Vic?”
I chuckle. “I’m thirty-five, Mother. I stopped growing over a decade ago.”
She meets my eyes and smiles, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Maybe you’ve gotten shorter with age,” I joke, instantly earning a playful swat on my arm.
“Vicente Godoy, are you calling me old? You know I don’t age. I’m like wine—I getbetterwith age.”
I shake my head with a grin as my father steps closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“Of course you do, dear,” he says, dropping a kiss on her forehead. She practically melts in his embrace.
“Why don’t we give Vicente a few minutes so he can change?” he suggests as he leads her out of the room.
“Sounds good, I’ll be downstairs shortly,” I call after them.
“Excellent, I don’t want to have breakfast without you,” she replies as they disappear down the hall.
When I get to the dining hall, I find my father sitting at the head of the table, despite this being my house—the one I bought with my own money.
Taking a deep breath, I sit on his right, across from my mother. If there’s anything I’ve learned in business, it’s to choose my battles, and this one is not one worth fighting.
“It’s great to see you, son. It’s been a while,” Mother says with a bright smile as she pours orange juice for all of us.
“I can’t believe it’s already March. It seems like yesterday when I went to Chile to spend Christmas with you.” I give her a pointed look, and she smirks.
“You can’t blame a mother for wanting to see her adult children more often.”
I smile and take a bite of eggs. When I glance at my father, he’s focused on his breakfast.
“You’re right, I can’t. But Karina lives twenty minutes away from you. You’re lucky at least one of us decided to stay close to home,” I say.
“Yes, I love living near my only daughter, but she’s a married woman with a full-time job.”
That’s true. My little sister, Karina, married an Argentinian who fell hard and fast for her. Now they own the vineyard next to ours, and just welcomed their first child.
“So, I have to ask,” I say, changing the topic before my mother can launch into an inquisition about when I plan to settle down and give her grandkids. “How did you manage to take time away from the vineyard so close to harvest season?”
“We can’t keep doing this forever,” my father says, setting down his fork. “Your mother and I needed a break. We’re not getting any younger, and we need to enjoy our lives while we can still travel.”
I don’t like where this is going, not one bit.
“That’s why we decided to come see you and let you know that you’ll have to pack your bags. You’re headed to Alamo Peaks for a month to oversee the harvest while we visit Gabo and Isabella—his girlfriend and his best friend’s little sister—in Italy.”
I drop the silverware on the plate.
What the fuck did he just say?