Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Giovanni
She sits because I pull the chair out and because coffee is there and because, right now, choices that require only a nod suit her.
The robe swallows her a little—shoulders narrow, belt cinched too tight. She loosens it a little after she sits and folds one leg under the other. Her toes curl once against the rung, then flatten. She sets her hands on her knees, palms down like she’s bracing in a moving car.
She’s flushed high on the cheeks and at the throat. Not the night’s heat—that’s gone. This is morning heat: nerves, breath that keeps wanting to go shallow, pulse a little too fast.
I pour coffee so she has something to hold. Her fingers wrap the cup like they’re cold when I know they aren’t.
“Milk?” I ask.
She looks at the little pitcher, then at me. “Yes, please.” The manners kick in when everything else in her mind is loud. That’s one of the first things I learned about her.
I tip milk until the color warms. She watches the swirl as if it can answer a question for her. It can’t, but it buys her a few seconds.
“Sugar?”
She shakes her head, then changes it to a nod. “Half.”
I give her half. She stirs. The small metal spoon dings the porcelain. One, two, three. She sets the spoon on the saucer precisely and lifts the cup. The steam fogs the air between us for a beat. She takes a sip. Some of the tightness leaves her shoulders. Not all.
She glances at the tray like it might be a trick. “What…is all this?”
“Breakfast,” I say, because being plain with her works.
I lift the first dome and set it aside. “Uova al tegamino—eggs baked with a little tomato and smoked paprika, finished with speck.” The smoky whisper escapes.
Her eyes flick up, surprised. I lift the other lid.
“Roasted tomatoes and mushrooms with thyme, cannellini warmed in what was left of the lamb juices, and bread we didn’t finish. ”
Her eyebrows move before anything else does. “You cooked?”
I let the corner of my mouth lift. “I cook.”
She blinks once, rapidly. “I mean—of course you can cook, I just—” She gives a small, helpless gesture that is more honest than any sentence. “You don’t seem like a person who does…this. Personally.”
“I don’t usually have time,” I say, amused because she apparently hasn’t yet learned that there are more versions of me than the one the public sees. Well, I’ll teach her that too. “But I had time for this.”
Her expression loosens a fraction. It’s not trust, not yet, but it’s enough for now. “It smells good,” she says, and it’s not a throwaway line. She means it.
“Eat,” I tell her softly, and pass the plate.
She hesitates, then picks up her fork. The first bite is small, the second is larger. She chews, looks past my shoulder at the rows, then back at the plate.
I fix my plate, give her space to decide if she needs to talk or to be quiet.
The morning is cool, but the sun is strong, already climbing. It lifts the color in the vines and throws light on the curve of her cheek. There’s the smallest rasp at her next swallow. She flinches at herself and hides it with coffee. I file it away and say nothing.
There’s honey inside and lemon on the counter. I’ll make tea when we go in.
“I meant to clean the kitchen,” she says, eyes still on the food.
“I handled it,” I say. She furrows her brow. “I know how to clean a pan.”
There’s that flicker of surprise in her eyes again. “You did the dishes.”
“Some of them.” I pour her a little more coffee without asking. “Some I put in the dishwasher.”
A horrifying thought occurs to her, and it shows plainly on her face.
“Not your knives,” I say. “Those I set aside for you to handle.”
Her back drops back against the chair, relieved.
She lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, shoulders easing by a notch. She tears a corner from the bread, drags it through the tomatoes and speck, and takes a careful bite.
“It’s good,” she says. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“My mother,” I say. “She taught us all a long time ago. Insisted that a good dish is how you attract a good woman.”
I smile fondly at the memories of my mother teaching me how to fold tortellini patiently. And how quickly that patience ran out when one of us—usually Antonio—made a snarky remark.
She tips her head, curious now. “Could your father make a good dish?”
I can’t help the smile. “Not on his life.”
Her mouth lifts. “Tragic.”
“He had other talents,” I say. “None of them belonged in a kitchen.”
She studies me over the rim of her cup. “But she loved him anyway.”
“For the time she had him,” I answer, and leave it at that.
The morning carries birdsong over the rows of vines. Somewhere, a tractor starts.
Bianca looks down at her plate, then back at me. “She sounds formidable.”
“She was. She moved across the ocean to a country where she couldn’t speak a word of the language and raised four troublemakers. Mostly on her own.” I nudge the cherries toward her.
Bianca reaches for one.
“She’d have liked you,” I add.
Her brows rise. “Because I can cook?”
“Because you don’t scare easily,” I say. “And because you stand your ground, even when you want to run.”
Color warms the curve of her throat again, but her shoulders settle. She spears a tomato and eats it without looking away. “I wasn’t running. I was… recalibrating.”
She clears her throat. “So, you were born—”
“Right here,” I say, encompassing the land.
Bianca looks out at the vineyards and lifts a brow. “Hard life.” Color blooms on her cheeks. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“It didn’t look like this when we lived here,” I say, amused. I gesture to the far side of the vineyard. “We lived down that way. When my father passed, my mother sold it to the man who owned this property. I bought it back years ago.” I pop a cherry into my mouth.
“I always loved this home when I was a child, so I made it my own.”
I don’t mention that the man constantly made passes at my mother, despite being married. I don’t mention that he skimped on her and offered her well below what the house was worth.
She had no choice but to take it. She needed the money to start a new life in the US, and he knew it.
I also don’t mention that I bought the property next door, opened my own winery, and slowly ran him out of business before snatching it up when he had no other options.
“Is the juice fresh?” she asks after a moment of silence, tapping a finger against the glass.
“It is.”
“You squeezed it.”
“I did.”
She furrows her brow, confused. “Why?”
“I like fresh-squeezed juice,” I say. But I don’t leave it there. “And because last night was…a lot. You need to sit, eat, breathe.”
She holds my eyes for a beat too long, then looks down. “I am sitting and eating. And breathing.”
“Now you are,” I say.
Her lips twist briefly. She eats. I do too. The wind moves the edge of her robe over her knee.
“You’re still nervous,” I say, not as a challenge, just to tell the truth out loud.
Her fork clicks against the plate. “I’m not…nervous,” she says, which is true and not true. “I’m trying not to be someone I don’t respect.”
“Which someone is that?”
“The one who can’t look her boss in the eye the next morning.” She flushes hard as soon as it’s out. “I didn’t mean— I mean, I did mean, you are—”
“I know what I am,” I say, quietly.
“I’m not a coward,” she says, softer.
“You aren’t,” I agree.
She puts the fork down like it weighs more than it does. “I feel…confused. And embarrassed, which I hate. I never feel embarrassed about wanting anything in a kitchen.” She scrapes sauce with the bread but doesn’t eat it. “Or about wanting food in general. Last night, I wanted… what I did.”
“And today?” I ask.
“Today,” she says, then sighs. “Today, I keep thinking—what did I do. Which is stupid. I know what I did. I’m just…having that morning brain where all the worst versions of the story play in my head.”
“Ah,” I say, and she looks up.
“Ah, what?”
“I was going to ask if you know how easy you are to read right now,” I say. “But that would be unkind. You’re not easy to read. You’re honest. Your face tells the truth before you can edit it out.”
“That’s not a compliment,” she says, but she doesn’t sound angry.
“It is from me,” I say. “I’ve been in too many rooms where lies are expected, are the default. I like seeing the real thing. I respect it.”
She holds my gaze too long again. This time, she doesn’t look away first. That’s new. Something in the line of her shoulders settles. Small, but it’s there.
“I’m not going to make this harder,” I add. “You’re not in the kitchen. You’re not at work. You’re not in debt right now. You’re eating breakfast on my balcony because I wanted to feed you and because you needed to be fed. That’s all this plate and this moment ask from you.”
She swallows. The ragged edge at her throat makes itself known. She touches there, reflex. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You can ask me ten,” I say, then add, “However, I can’t guarantee an answer.”
“Are you…Are you going to expect me to pretend I didn’t—” She shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “Never mind. That’s not the question.” She opens them again. “Was this—last night—some sort of…”
My eyes harden, and so does my expression. “No,” I bite out, shocking her a bit.
Her eyes shoot to mine, a bit fearful, when I push the chair back and stand abruptly.
“Let me be clear about one thing,” I say and lean across the small table to lift her chin with my finger.
I feel her swallow. “I don’t sleep with women for money.
I don’t need to, and I don’t choose to. What happened last night had nothing to do with your debt or employment. I hired you to cook, not suck my cock.”
Color bursts high and bright on her cheeks, and she tries to pull away, but I catch her chin with my hand and hold it firmly, keeping her eyes on mine.
“Do. You. Understand?” I ask slowly, deliberately.
Her breath puffs out, and she tries to nod. Again, I tighten my grip on her chin.
“Use your words, mia,” I order. “When I ask you a question, use your words.”
“Do you understand?” I ask again.
Her throat works. “Yes,” she says, steadying her voice. “I understand.”
“Good.” My grip softens; I slide my thumb along her jaw and let her go.
“What I want from you is the same thing I wanted last night—you. But not out of obligation. Not leverage. If you want space, I’ll give it to you, and we’ll talk business like adults later.
But don’t rewrite what happened into something it wasn’t. ”
She exhales, a small, shivery thing that leaves her shoulders lower than before. Her eyes flick to the plate, then back to me. “Okay,” she says. She picks up her fork, breaks the yolk, and drags bread through the gold. Some of the color in her cheeks evens out; the line between her brows loosens.
Little by little, she’s relaxing back into her chair.
I don’t want that.
“So, what’ll it be?” I ask.
My question brings her eyes back to mine.
“Do you want space? Do you want to take time alone to think? Maybe take a walk through the fields, clear your mind?” I gesture with my chin at the vineyards shimmering under the bright morning sun.
“Or do you want to stay right here. And fuck?”
Her fork clatters against the plate. Her mouth opens, her eyes tear up, but no words come out. She stares at me like I’ve started speaking in tongues.
"Well?" I ask, arching a brow.
She swallows again, but she meets my eyes.
"I want... to fuck," she breathes.
My grin is slow, full, and dangerous.
"Good." I step around to her side of the table. "Now, get inside and get naked. Now."