“Un momento!” I call, fumbling the second earring into place, smoothing my dress like that fixes the noise in my bloodstream.
“Easy, baby. No need to stress,” he rasps with a devilish smirk, then he crosses the room with the leisurely confidence of a man who owns the hallway, drops a kiss on my cheek that is entirely unnecessary and devastatingly effective, before striding out to open the door.
Lulu’s voice floats in, bright and effervescent, like a flute of prosecco poured too fast. “Ciao!Are you ready? Enzo is napping so I get you all to myself.”
I hate myself for thego claim your manurgency that bolts through my veins. It’s ridiculous. It’s pathetically human. I swipe a hand over my hair, grab my light shawl, and follow the sound of her into the suite’s private sitting room.
I enter just in time to see her slipping her arm through Vasso’s, the cute peach tattoo on her bare shoulder bared by the cherry-red crochet mini that’s more loophole than dress, braless beneath a whisper of lace and balanced on espadrille wedges that weaponize her legs.
“Come, come. There is a lookout where you can see the sea if you stand on your toes and dance.”
She pulls at Vasso.My husband.
And he allows it a step, two, then glances back at me with an expression that admits the absurdity and asks for patience. I give him neither. I fall into step on his other side, smile neat and lethal.
Lulu narrates as we walk.
This slope is Sangiovese; that one, Cabernet because Enzo likes to make the French jealous. The truffle dogs that accompany us, barking excitedly, are called Biscotto and Regina; the cellar ceiling has one star painted for every wife, which is either romantic or a cry for help. Every third sentence, she squeezes Vasso’s arm, stands too close, or leans to point with unnecessary contact, as if he’s a museum piece with a button to press for audio.
“Here,” she coos at a break in the vines, pressing against him to peer down a path only she can see. “Look. So pretty.”
“So are boundaries,” I say pleasantly, and when she blinks, uncomprehending, I add with sharpened sweetness, “They’re like hedges, Lulu. You can lean on them, but if you climb over, you get scratched.”
“Oh!” She beams. “I love gardening.”
Vasso makes a strangled noise that might be a cough and might be a laugh trying to behave. I step closer to his other side until his body heat registers through linen, my breast making an impression on his arm. He stares down at me, nostrils flaringbriefly, then the casual-looking adjustment of his hand to the small of my back turns firmer, more definite.
He pulls me closer and something settles in my chest.
Lulu bends to pet Biscotti while displaying several eyefuls of her cleavage.
“For the love of God,” I bite out under my breath.
“Play nice,” Vasso murmurs without moving his lips.
“Iamnice,” I murmur back. “You should see me mean.”
“I have,” he says, low and warm but with tight edge I don’t miss. “It’s beautiful and deadly. Belladonna at its finest.”
The tour winds between vines heavy with promise and under olive trees that toss their silver leaves like confetti. The air smells of rosemary, sun, and the iron tang of stone. Lulu’s commentary chirps on: This is the pergola where the private dinner will be“Fairy lights! Like stars, but closer”, this is the Vespa shed“I look so cute in a scarf. Maybe I will come with you”, this is the barrel room where lovers write their initials in chalk on staves for luck“Mine is on seven of them!”
By the time we loop back toward the house, my jaw aches from smiling. Lulu reaches again for Vasso’s arm with the innocent entitlement of a toddler claiming a toy.
“Lulu,” I say, still honeying my tone. “If you hang on any tighter to my husband, you’ll end up a bracelet.”
“Oh!” She looks delighted. “I love bracelets.” She jangles her wrists as if we’re blind to the evidence.
“Of course you do,” I say, and Vasso’s composure slides, the corner of his mouth betraying him into a flash of grin he kills too late. “But sadly, his favorite color isnotred.”
He sees my face a second later and the grin dies properly. I’m not amused. I’m… something else that tastes less like the champagne we drank at ten thousand feet and more of the olive pit we spat out two hours ago.
“Maybe we cut this short,” he tells Lulu with the smoothness of a man who rescues both damsels and situations. “My wife and I have jet lag to fight and a call with the island trust.”
“Jet lag,” Lulu repeats, pouting a little. “Boring.”
“Sleep is the new scandal,” Vasso says dryly. “Very fashionable.”
She peels off with a wave and a promise to bring methe best lipstick color for Italian sun,flitting toward the house like a sparrow with too much jewelry. We’re left in the dappled shade of a fig tree, the villa golden beyond, the vineyard stretching away like a green sea.
