Silence settled over the dining room. Matteo and I stood on opposite sides of the table, six bottles between us.
"So," he said softly. "Shall we?"
He started with the whites. Poured a small measure into my glass with practiced precision, tilted his own toward the light to examine the color, catching the afternoon sun.
"This one is from the eastern slope. The grapes get more morning sun there, which gives it—" He paused, watching me with amusement. "You're not listening."
I frowned at him. "I'm listening."
"You're smiling."
"Can't I smile while listening?"
"You can." He set down his glass. "But that particular smile usually means you're thinking something you're not saying."
I took a sip of the wine. Crisp, clean, a hint of something floral underneath. Maybe honeysuckle.
"I was thinking that you look different here," I admitted. "In New York. Out of context."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. More... contained, maybe. At the vineyard, you seemed like part of the landscape itself. Here you look like you're visiting somewhere foreign."
He considered this, his expression thoughtful. "I am visiting. New York isn't home."
"Do you like it? The city?"
"Parts of it. The energy. The ambition. Everyone here seems to be building something." He refilled my glass with the second white. "But it's too fast. Too loud. Too..." He gestured vaguely. "Too much. I miss the quiet. The space to breathe."
"I used to think quiet was boring. Stifling, even."
"And now?"
I thought about the vineyard. The morning light through the guest room window. The way time had seemed to move differently there, slower and more deliberate.
"Now I'm not sure," I said quietly.
He smiled. That private smile I was starting to know too well, the one that made my chest feel tight.
We moved through the whites and into the reds. He explained each one with obvious passion—the soil composition, the climate, the year, the particular year, the magic that made this grape different from that one. I listened, asked questions, watched his hands as he poured.
Good hands. Careful hands. The hands of someone who paid attention to details that mattered.
"This one," he said, sliding a glass toward me with reverence, "is my favorite. From the oldest vines on the property. My great-grandfather planted them in 1923."
I lifted the glass. The wine was deep ruby, almost purple at the edges. It smelled like dark fruit and smoke and something earthier underneath.
"Taste it," Matteo said, his voice dropping lower. "Tell me what you think."
I took a sip. Let it sit on my tongue, feeling the weight of it, the complexity.
"It's..." I searched for words. "It tastes like a story. Like something that took a long time to become what it is."
His expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "That's exactly what it is,Bella."
We stood there, the wine between us, the afternoon light slanting through the windows. I was suddenly aware of how close we were. How easy it would be to step forward, to close the distance.
"Isabelle." His voice was quieter now, careful. "Can I ask you something?"
