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above the din, the heavenly scent of lily of the valley, warmed by her blood, assaulted his senses. He’d already come to associate the scent of roses with her, but this one wasn’t bad, either.
    â€œThe usual. Draft.”
    â€œWell?” She couldn’t wait another minute. “What did your father say?”
    â€œIt’s like I told you. We have no interest in selling our land,” he said, one hand on his beer—a welcome reward after a hard day in the fields—the other resting on the back of her bar stool.
    â€œWhat exactly did he say?”
    He tried and failed to drag his eyes off the sight of her rosy fingertip, tracing the rim of her wineglass. “You have to understand who he is. Who we are.”
    â€œSo tell me.” She swiveled her stool until her knees bumped against his hip. On his other side, the crowd hemmed him in.
    He inhaled to get ready for his speech. “Everyone’s a farmer, down in the Michoacán. My father grew up raising avocados, garbanzos, lemons, corn—you name it. There’s nothing he can’t grow.” Except, maybe lavender. But it wasn’t Padre who was messing around with that. Padre was too practical . . . or was sane the better word?
    â€œPadre brought us here when land was still dirt cheap. For years, we helped his uncle work his farm, and in return he left the property to us. But even though Padre’s a citizen now, the way he lives his life is still like it was in the Michoacán. The biggest difference is here, he can make a much better living.”
    Sauvignon listened intently. “What about you?”
    He studied her face, looking for the meaning behind her words. “What do you want to do with your life?” she repeated.
    He swigged his beer. That kind of impractical, philosophical question was only pondered by people like her. He glanced over at the men with fifty-dollar haircuts hovering around her sisters. People of privilege.
    â€œFarming is in my blood.”
    â€œThat’s not what I asked.”
    He laughed drily. “Kind of alien to me, that anyone can do whatever he wants with his life.”
    â€œWhy is that?”
    He thought for a minute. “It’s not just what I want. There are other people to think about. Like my mother and father.”
    â€œI’m sure your parents want you to be happy.”
    She didn’t get it. That farm was Padre’s identity. Without it, he was nothing. He’d be wrecked if his only son gave up on it, after he’d devoted his life to nailing down a piece of the American dream for him. “Maybe what’s best for my family is what will make me happiest.”
    â€œSay you didn’t happen to like farming. What would happen then?”
    â€œYou don’t do it because you like it,” he explained. “You just do it. For the people you love. Who love you.”
    â€œSo, it’s about honor.”
    â€œYou could call it that. I call it doing what’s right for the people you care most about.”
    She shrugged. “Whatever. It’s not like you have to do something other than farm.”
    But the reality was that Esteban couldn’t imagine a life without his hands in the dirt. “I like growing things.”
    â€œSo, you see yourself walking in your father’s footsteps? Farming the same patch of land he did for the rest of your life?”
    When she rotated back toward the bar to retrieve her wine, her knees brushed against his fly this time, prompting his eyes to move downward to her skirted thighs. He took a long pull on his beer and tried not think about what they looked like naked.
    Concentrate. He did have a dream—even if Padre thought it was harebrained. What if he confided in her and then failed to achieve it? She would know. Even if he ran into her fifty years from now, she would know .
    This conversation needed to be over. She was the enemy. Letting her in was too hard . . . in so