"Your aim is terrible," he observed.
"My aim is fine. I was being gentle."
"Ah. Of course. Very considerate of you."
We finished breakfast in easier silence. The awkwardness hadn't disappeared entirely, but it had softened into something more manageable. By the time the driver arrived, I could almost look at Matteo without my face catching fire.
Almost.
"Thank you," I said as we walked to the car, my heels crunching on the gravel. "For everything. You really made it an amazing experience. It was exactly what I needed."
"You're welcome anytime,Bella." He stopped beside the car door, hands in his pockets. "I mean that. Anytime you need to escape, the vineyard is here."
"I might take you up on that."
"I hope you do." Something in his voice made me look at him. His expression was open, unguarded. "I really hope you do."
We stood there for a moment. The sun warm on our faces. The sound of birds and distant machinery, the peaceful hum of the vineyard waking up.
I stepped forward and hugged him. It was awkward. My arms didn't quite know where to go. His hands settled on my back, light and careful, like he was holding something fragile. I pulled away too quickly, suddenly aware of how good he smelled, how solid he felt.
"Goodbye, Matteo."
"Arrivederci, Bella."His smile was soft. "Good luck with the opening. I'll see you there."
I climbed into the car, settling into the leather seat. The driver pulled away smoothly. Through the rear window, I watched Matteo standing in the driveway, growing smaller and smaller, until the vineyard disappeared around a bend and there was nothing but hills and the sky.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
The drive back to Milan gave me time to think. Too much time, maybe. The hills rolled past, beautiful and indifferent, and I sat in the back seat replaying every moment of the past twenty-four hours.
The way Matteo had looked at me in the rain, water streaming down his face.
The footsteps stopping outside my door, and that endless moment of waiting.
And the dream I had.
By the time we reached the city, I'd almost convinced myself it meant nothing. That it was just a moment, a distraction, a temporary escape from reality.
Almost.
My hotel room was exactly as I'd left it. The dress Femi had sent still hung in the closet. The flowers were beginning to wilt. I dropped onto the bed and just breathed for a moment. Let the silence settle around me.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it, heart jumping with pa—but it was Naomi.
Just landed. Customs is a nightmare. Be there in an hour.
I texted back:I'm at the hotel. Suite 412. Just come up when you get here.
Will do. Order wine. I need it.
I smiled and set the phone aside.
Still nothing from Femi.
Naomi arrived looking like she'd stepped off a runway instead of a nine-hour flight. She was wearing wide-leg trousers and a silk blouse, her braids pulled back in an elegant knot, oversizedsunglasses pushed up on her head. Her suitcase was the size of a small car.
"I need to lie down immediately," she announced, sweeping into my suite. "And also tell you about the man who would not stop talking to me."
