Not that I blame him one bit. Except it’s still unlike him; even if he’s angry, he usually would answer or at least message back to ensure I was okay.
I’m sure after my little performance, he’d go back to ignoring me, but still, he’s a gentleman first over anything else.
I hug my knees to my chest, taking in the spectacular view I’m barely appreciating—the green-manicured rolling hills, rows upon rows of vines, and tall, neatly groomed Cyprus trees lining the winding road leading up to the limestone villa.
God, this is a freaking dreamland, and I’m sitting here moping like a loser.
“Buongiorno, bella,” Romeo calls as he walks up through the olive groves, and I internally sigh, wishing him away.
Romeo picked me up from the airport, arrived yesterday with breakfast, and today he’s giving me my first lesson on winemaking, which normally I would be ecstatic about, but my less-than-stellar attitude hinders everything I attempt to do.
Luckily for me, Romeo has picked up on my bad mood, so there’s been no excessive flirting, just business. I appreciate that greatly since I wouldn’t have been able to turn him away, considering he’s the son of one of my biggest clients.
“Good morning.” I wave, forcing a smile. “I didn’t see you pull up. Where did you come from?” I ask.
He points past the olive trees. “Beyond there is a pool you must use. It’s an instant stress reliever surrounded by dozens of lemon trees, and I promised Mamma I would bring some home, so I used our private road and parked there.”
“Ah, I see, sneaky.” I will definitely be taking him up on the pool idea, though I’m not mentioning that, because I have a funny feeling Romeo’s lack of flirting would change the second I put on a bikini.
“Come, I will show you our family’s history,” he states proudly, a genuine smile on his face.
This is something I admire greatly about the people of Italy. The pride for their country’s history and fierce love for family is unmatched. I’ve never come across it before in all my travels.
“This is your first time to this property, si?” Romeo asks.
“Yes. I’ve only been to your parents’ house. But I prefer it here if I’m honest.” I smile, knowing Romeo will never tell them.
“I agree. To me, this is real Tuscany. I love that we are building our name up so people worldwide can sample the love we put into our wine, but here”—he gestures around the property—“is where my ancestry lies, where my great-grandfather started it all. I feel at home here.”
The DeLuca family property, where most of the wine is produced, is spectacular but designed in a more modern style.
Here you feel like you’ve stepped back in time. It’s giving me a sense of how it was many years ago because, believe it or not, although I work closely with Lorenzo, Romeo’s dad, he shares more about the modern techniques of winemaking and what sells the wine now, not how it was when they started.
In the future, we need to add more of their family’s history and show that they started from nothing and built their empire from hard manual labor.
Buyers will eat it up.
I follow Romeo through vines over the next hour or so, and he explains to me about the different varietals being grown in the area, the surrounding region, and what makes Tuscan wine different from others.
It’s all so fascinating, and it’s the first time I’ve enjoyed myself since stepping foot in Italy. “Tell me a fun fact about Italian wine, Romeo.”
“A fun fact,” he mutters while tapping his temple. “Ah yes, I’ve got one.” He smiles. “In Italy, there are around two thousand varieties of grapes, but only about three hundred and fifty are used and authorized.”
“Geez, that’s a lot. How many do you have here at this property?”
“Sadly, we lost many vines due to age, but all of them are the same varietal of Sangiovese, which is indigenous to Tuscany. My great-grandfather planted these seventy-five years ago. It’s why we don’t use them—they don’t produce great wine anymore—but it is a part of our family’s history, so we try our best to keep it as long as possible.”
“Wow,” I murmur, running my hands along the tops of the vines, in awe of everything I’m learning.
“I’m happy to share more information about the wine, but this is not my favorite part of the property. Would you be interested in trying our olive oil?”
I perk up at the idea. “Yes, please. I didn’t know you produced that.”
“The olive trees are said to be around five hundred years old.” He places his arm around me to maneuver me around some branches. “Come, I’ll show you.”
“Get your fucking hands off my wife,” a familiar growl penetrates the air.
My head shoots up, and I’m taken aback, in complete shock. “Wh-what are you doing here, Jack?”
