“A streak,” he agrees.
“You don’t strike me as the running wild and free type,” I say.
“For a while, I was a carefree child,” he says. “Then I had to grow up. Fast.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t prod. I have a feeling it has to do with losing his father at such a young age. Being moved from the only life they knew and starting fresh in New Jersey.
We come to a break in the rows where a small track crosses. He steps ahead and offers a hand. I take it. His palm is warm and steady, and the contact sends a quick streak of heat up my arm. This time, he doesn’t release my hand. He tucks it into his and keeps walking.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“That I like it here,” I say, surprised to hear it out loud.
“That surprises you?” he asks.
“A little,” I admit. “I didn’t expect quiet to feel…useful.” I glance down the row. “Usually quiet means my brain gets loud. Here it doesn’t.”
He squeezes my hand once. “Good. Then it’s doing its job.”
We stop where the rows open to a view. The vineyard falling away, the tower off to our right, the house small and bright below.
Wind pushes a loose strand across my mouth; Gio reaches without thinking and tucks it behind my ear. The touch is simple. My chest does something that’s not simple at all.
“Tell me what you want for the rest of the day,” he says. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. Just today.”
“Walk,” I say. “Then sit somewhere and watch the sun go down. Eat something.”
“That sounds like a perfect plan,” he says.
We crest the next rise, the rows parting like a curtain, and a small knoll comes into view. A single tree, and under it, a blanket already spread, a wicker basket set beside a pair of low cushions, the corner of a linen napkin lifting in the breeze.
Candles on long stands are buried in the ground surrounding it, the flames fluttering in the breeze.
I stop. “You planned this.”
“I’m thorough,” he says, unbothered. “And I listen.”
“But we didn’t make a plan,” I say, half laughing as he leads me off the track toward the tree.
“I had a feeling,” he answers and leads me to it.
We kick our shoes off at the edge of the blanket. The springy grass under the blanket cushions my feet. The basket smells like summer—tomato, basil, something salty. He loosens the strap and lifts the lid.
Inside: a bottle resting against a wrap of cool cloth, two tumblers, a small jar of bright olives, paper-wrapped sandwiches still warm at the center, and a container of strawberries.
“You always keep a picnic kit ready?” I ask, easing down onto a cushion.
“Only when the company is worth it,” he says, and the way he says it is not a line. He passes me a glass and pours a deep red wine into it.
I lift the glass and breathe it in—cherry and something floral, a little savory through the middle. “Sangiovese again?” I ask. “You’re wasting some serious money on me.”
“Not wasted. Never,” he says seriously. “The face you make when you try it, your little sounds of pleasure… Priceless.”
My cheeks warm a little.
He breaks a sandwich in half and hands me a piece. Warm bread gives under my fingers; inside, there’s thin-sliced roasted pepper, soft cheese, a swipe of something herby.
We eat without talking for a minute, wind moving the leaves above us, the tower keeping quiet watch to the side. My shoulders drop in small degrees that I don’t try to stop.
