“You can go in the morning,” I say.
She turns to me slowly. “What do you mean?”
“It’s late,” I answer. “You’re tired.”
Her brows pull in. “That doesn’t make—” She looks out the window. “Where are we going now?”
“My house.”
Complete silence for a long moment, then: “Your… house?”
“Yes. It’s closer and more convenient than going into the city.”
She studies my face like there’s a catch or like she’s waiting for me to say “gotcha!”
I don’t.
Chapter Nineteen
Bianca
I stand in the doorway a second because my brain needs a moment to register.
I’m in a guest room. In Giovanni’s house.
I didn’t even know he had a house here. I thought: hotel for him, my apartment for me. Then we’d meet up at the end of the week to fly back.
Not… this.
Not staying in his damn house.
In Giovanni’s house.
I shake my head to snap myself out of the loop before it consumes me again.
I look around the room.
The room is grand without trying. Old lathe and plaster washed the color of cream. A ceiling framed in dark beams. Floors in broad oak boards, worn to satin. A bed that could stage a small wedding. High, ironwork headboard, white linen stacked deep and thick.
French doors stand open to a balcony; a sheer curtain moves in the draft.
Beyond: rows and rows of vines marching away under a moon that makes everything silver.
He owns a vineyard. Right here. In Bologna. Where I live. Where I work as a professional chef, for the love of God.
How the hell did I not know this?
I set my bag on a bench at the foot of the bed and just… stare. A low dresser, handsome and old. A standing mirror with a foxed edge.
On the nightstand: a carafe of water with two glasses and a small bowl of apricots. A slim book sits on it: a Bologna city history in Italian. What would I ever need that for? Did they get many guests staying here who are interested in the history of Bologna and know Italian?
The lamp throws a circle of warm light across the bed and floor. No clutter. No hotel art. Real art. Chosen and curated.
My fingers find the door handle behind me and test the swing once. It closes softly. The lock clicks with a strong, confident sound. I’m not scared; I’m… aware. Of him in another room nearby. The thought makes heat crawl up my neck as if I stood too close to a stove.
I cross to the balcony and step out. Night is cool and a little damp. Below, gravel paths are braided between beds of rosemary and sage, giving off a delightful aroma; the herbs are dark mounds against pale stone. Farther out, the vineyard drops away into orderly stripes. A small light glows by a low outbuilding. Maybe a bottling shed, maybe something else. Somewhere, an owl keeps asking me who? Who?
All I want to know is how. How the hell did I get myself into this?
