Page 21 of Bad Men's Good Girl

A sudden explosion of brass and percussion shatters the tension. Before I can answer Max, a blur of sandy hair andsun-tanned skin disrupts the shade. Amos slides between us, a mischievous glint in his eyes and two heavy glass jars of red wine in his hands.

"Deep thoughts for a shallow afternoon, Professor?" Amos asks, flashing Max a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Without waiting for an answer, he hooks his elbow through mine. "Sorry, Max, I’m reclaiming the guest of honor. They’re starting the grape stomp, and Baleigh hasn't lived until she’s stained her toes."

He sweeps me toward the middle of the piazza, where a circle of locals has formed around massive wooden vats. The air vibrates with the stomp of feet and the frantic rhythm of a tambourine. Amos hands his wine to a stranger, grabs both my hands, and spins me into the fray.

"Amos, wait! My dress?—"

"It’s a souvenir!" he shouts over the music. He lifts me over the rim of a vat, his grip firm and warm on my waist, and lowers me into a sea of cool, bursting skins. The sensation is bizarre, squelchy, and exhilarating. Amos jumps in across from me, his laughter booming. He reaches out, tucking a stray hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my temple for a second too long. "Look at you. You’re finally breathing."

I don’t think about the laundry or the schedule. I just laugh, mirroring his easy, electric energy until my lungs ache.

Later, as the sun dips lower, painting the vines in shades of vibrant plum, the noise of the festival becomes a dull hum in the distance. Atticus finds me near the estate, trying to wipe the juice from my ankles with a damp cloth.

"The light is perfect," he says softly. He doesn't ask; he simply gestures toward the rows of Sangiovese.

We walk in silence through the labyrinth of greenery. The wind carries the scent of dry earth. Atticus stops, adjusting his camera, his movements fluid and practiced. He talks about theway the shadows change the shape of the hills, his voice a low, soothing cadence.

"People look at Italy and see a postcard," he says, stepping close to show me his digital display. "I look for the cracks. That’s where the truth is."

He scrolls to a photo from earlier. It isn't me laughing with Amos or listening to Max. It’s a shot of me alone by a stone fountain, my expression stripped bare, looking at the horizon with a raw, aching hope I didn't know I possessed.

"You look like you're waking up," he whispers.

I study the girl in the frame, startled by the vulnerability in her eyes. He didn't just take a photo; he caught the exact moment my old life started to feel like a suit that no longer fits.

Atticus lowers the camera, but he doesn't step back. We stand in the narrow aisle of the vineyard, the vines acting as walls that shut out the world. With Max, I feel like a student of the world, my intellect stretching and aching under his careful cultivation. With Amos, I feel like a live wire, sparked into a frantic, joyful dance that ignores the consequences. But here, under the steady green gaze of Atticus, I feel like a poem he’s spent years trying to translate.

"I didn't know I looked like that," I say, voice caught in the back of my throat.

"I don't think you ever look at yourself when you aren't performing," he says. He reaches out, his thumb skimming the line of my jaw, moving with the same reverence he uses to handle his vintage lenses. "You're always trying to be the person who fits. You don't have to fit here, Baleigh."

The weight of it sinks into my stomach. It’s a terrifying, beautiful trio of pulls. I want Max to keep peeling back my layers until I find the core of my ambition. I want Amos to keep dragging me into the chaos until I forget how to be afraid. And I want Atticus to keep looking at me until I finally recognizemyself. They aren't pieces of a puzzle; they’re three different versions of the woman I could become, and I am desperately, hopelessly attracted to all of them.

We migrate back toward the villa as the sky transforms to a deep indigo. Long tables have been set under the stars, dozens of candles flickering in glass hurricane lamps. The smell of truffle oil and roasted rosemary fills the air. I sit between Max and Amos, with Atticus directly across from me.

The conversation flows with the wine, but the tone shifts. The manic energy of the grape stomp dies down, replaced by a quiet, reflective sobriety.

"The Rome excursion starts in ten days," Max notes, swirling a glass of Brunello. "Once we transition there, the pace triples. It’s the final sprint."

"And then the great dispersal," Amos says, though his usual grin is muted. "I’ve got a flight to Berlin for a site visit, and then I’m back in New York for the autumn recruitment cycle."

Atticus leans back, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. "I’m heading toward the Amalfi Coast. Got a pitch for a series on the lemon harvests."

Twelve days. Six weeks. The numbers suddenly feel like a countdown clock ticking inside my chest. I look down at my hands, still stained a faint, ghostly purple from the grapes. In a few weeks, I’m supposed to be back at home, sitting in my cubicle, listening to the hum of the air conditioner and discussing the humidity.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Amos says, nudging my shoulder.

"I just realized how little time is left," I say. The realization isn't a nudge; it’s an avalanche. I look around at the three of them—the intellectual, the adventurer, the observer—and the thought of the North Carolina border feels like a prison sentence.

I’m not ready for the lights to go out. I’m just starting to see.

The music shifts to a slow, sweeping violin solo that hums through the floorboards of the terrace. I watch them over the rim of my wine glass, a silent observer at my own table. Max is currently debating the architectural merits of the villa with the estate owner, his hands moving in precise, captivating gestures that command the space. Amos is leaning back, chair balanced on two legs, rolling a stray cork between his palms while making a joke that has Atticus smirking.

They are so distinct, like three different cardinal directions, yet they’ve become the gravity holding my world together.

I’ve spent my whole life being the girl who makes the list, weighs the pros and cons, and picks the most sensible route. But there is no sensible route here. How do I choose between the man who sees my potential, the man who sees my joy, and the man who sees my soul?

"Baleigh," Atticus says, his voice cutting through my internal monologue. He’s looking at me across the flickering candle, his eyes darkened by the evening. "You're thinking about the 'after' instead of the 'now.'"