“Benetti,” I say, watching the man’s eyes go wide. “And we are only parking here, but I need to check something at the restaurant first. Don’t let anyone near the car.”
He nods quickly, and I take the short walk down the path to leave the hotel gate. The place we’re going to eat has a gorgeous garden where most people dine in the same area where their food is grown. There is a historic lemon grove that the chef uses to make the best limoncello in Italy. But I also know that there is a private dining space in their wine cellar.
It’s a quick conversation with the manager. The couple currently using the room to celebrate their fiftieth wedding anniversary get a beautiful, fat roll of euros from the Benettis to leave right now. When they see me standing by the front, they are quick to apologise. I also instruct the staff that my wife and I would like to dine with as much privacy as possible.
My wife. I stroll back up to the hotel with a stupid smirk on my face. She isn’t married to me yet, but she might as well be. The rumour about our dining experience will surely be spread throughout the city before the end of the night.
“We are all sorted.” I open her door and offer my hand.
Cheyenne takes it and blows out a breath. She doesn’t let go of me either when we start to walk down the path.
“Wow,” she mumbles as we walk to the restaurant. “Isn’t this like sacrilegious or something?”
“Nah,” I smile. “This hasn’t been a church for a very long time.”
I watch her every reaction as we enter. Her lips part at the warm lights that cascade from the vaulted ceilings. Her fingers clench mine tightly as she sees the garden area, the lemons hanging from the pergolas already. She doesn’t notice the side glances or hear the whispers the way I do.
“Is that?”
“She must be…”
“So pretty.”
The maître d’hôtel waits off to the side quietly and, once we have our fill, they lead us into the cellar. The large room has all but two sturdy chairsremoved, sitting next to each other. There is already a bottle of white wine in an ice bath and a red wine next to it.
I stop Cheyenne from pulling out her chair herself. She looks at me a bit like I’m crazy, but when I do it and gesture for her to sit, she complies. With ease, I push her chair in as well and sit myself.
“The chef would like to prepare a special menu for you, Mr Benetti. Is there anything you wish not to eat?” they ask softly, pouring flavoured water from a pitcher I hadn’t noticed.
“I’m happy to eat anything.” I look over at Cheyenne.
“I don’t like fish, but prawns are okay.”
“Are you allergic to anything?”
“No,” we answer together.
They nod and leave us to it. I sound like such a fucking old man when I describe our conversation like that, but that’s just it. Because we’ve already done a background check on Cheyenne, I know the basics. She doesn’t blink when I ask deeper questions. She explains why she doesn’t speak to her parents anymore. I’m more than happy to listen to her rant about public education, politics, and for some reason, the economics of romance books.
“Do you read a lot?” I ask. I think I have read one other book in the last decade, but if that’s something Cheyenne likes to do in her free time, I can try to get into it with her.
“Not as much as I want, but I’ve reached this weird point where I’m either critiquing books instead of enjoying them, or feeling bad about myself,” she says.
“Why would reading make you feel bad?”
“Have you ever seen someone else’s work and thought you’d never be able to compare? Like that guy in the office whose proposal is that extra bit more thorough or maybe someone is lifting just that little bit more than you at the gym?”
“No,” I answer honestly. I’m not great at everything, that would be ridiculous. But I’m fucking spectacular at making sure we have the greatest people in our organisation. I was raised to never feel inadequate about anything.
“Well.” She takes a sip of her wine. “I get that feeling a lot when I read.”
“You shouldn’t,” I say with too much force. I can’t make her think things or change ingrained habits with two little words. “Everyone has their own skills, and as long as you’re open to learn, trying your best each day, there’s no limit to what you can do.”
“What podcast did you get that from?” She laughs.
“Ouch, honey.” I grab my heart as if her teasing hurt me. “I happened to hear that from Zed Q talk, thank you very much.”
“Do you do podcasts oranything?”
