18. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
KATIE
Mom: Deborah says you’ll be in Rome tomorrow. You should share that on social media. Who knows? It might be the nudge Jared needs to show up and win you back.
Me: Or I could toss my phone in the Trevi Fountain so you can’t text me anymore.
Mom: C’mon, imagine: You turn around and there he is… holding flowers!
Me: You really need to get off Pinterest.
Mom: Don’t be ridiculous! Rome was made for falling in love again.
Me: Jared falling back in love with me would require an actual miracle. Like, Vatican-level.
Mom: Good idea. If the Pope has an email, I’ll find it.
TODAY HAS BEEN A BLUR .
I barely remember breakfast or the bus ride to the vineyard. Time seems to have folded in on itself, moving both too fast and not quick enough. Caterina and I spent the day turning the terrace into a scene straight out of an Italian rom-com. Between the arrangements for the party, the chatter about Italy, and the sheer magic of the enchanting Tuscan sun, I’ve hardly had time to breathe—let alone think about what comes next.
And I kind of don’t want to.
And then there’s Caterina, the most badass pregnant woman I’ve ever met. She’s been hustling in her tiny kitchen, producing enough authentic cuisine to feed a small army. At the same time, she’s somehow orchestrating the arrival of decorations, a portable dance floor, and flowers—we’re talking gorgeous custom floral arrangements. Apparently her friend in the village grows them specifically for events like this.
The woman has connections that would make a Mafia boss jealous.
She even tried to move one of the massive wooden tables herself. While. Seven. Months. Pregnant.
I swear Enrico materialized out of thin air, his tall frame blocking her path like a protective wall of Italian masculinity. He planted his feet and his casual smiling eyes went serious. “No, no, no. You sit, mi amore. Or lie down. Or eat something.” His tone left no room for argument. “No lifting, capisce ?”
Caterina’s response was pure fire, phrases delivered in Italian so vulgar his eyes went wide. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tone? Universal. It was the sound of a woman who’s heard “you can’t” one too many times. I thought she was going to prove him wrong, but instead, she rolled her eyes and relented, muttering something about how pregnancy isn’t an illness.
I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s easy to see why Enrico is such a guardian of her—she’s incredible. The kind of person who makes you pledge your loyalty to her after one conversation.
She’s also the reason my brain has been spinning elaborate fantasies all day. It started this morning when she casually dropped the atomic bomb of “I can’t wait for you to stay here” while arranging salami. Hello? Did you just read my soul out loud?
I nearly inhaled a piece of cheese. “I… I never said—”
“Pfft.” She dismissed my protest with a wave of provolone. “Your heart speaks louder than your words. And I see you kiss Matteo before he leave.”
From that moment on, she became a one-woman tourism board, painting pictures of my potential future. The seasons in Tuscany. The festivals. The wine harvest. The late-night dinners with food for days and endless laughter. Every dreamy, romantic detail rolled off her tongue like a sultry travel ad, and each one ticked off another box in my fantasy life with Matteo.
I’ve been secretly rehearsing how to tell everyone about my plans to stay.
My mom will need medical attention.
My friends will stage an intervention.
And Aunt Deb? Well, she probably won’t even notice.
My current strategy? Ghost my return flight and deal with the fallout from a safe distance.
Nothing says “mature adult decision” like avoiding confrontation from another continent, right?
The seniors arrived an hour ago, bubbling with excitement and decked out in their finest clothes. Caterina and I worked together to get Rose ready, and I have to admit, the whole thing has been ridiculously sweet. Caterina borrowed a dress from a neighbor—a stunning ivory lace gown—and somehow found a local professional to do Rose’s hair and makeup.
Rose stands in front of a mirror, and the room only gets brighter with her smile.
“Oh my,” she whispers, running her fingers over the delicate fabric. “I haven’t felt this beautiful since my wedding day.”
“You look stunning ,” I agree.
Caterina sniffs beside me, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Enrico always say a woman grows more beautiful with every year she is loved.”
“I was such a nervous wreck at my wedding,” Rose confesses, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the dress. “Poor Stan had to practically carry me down the aisle. My hands were shaking so badly he grabbed both of them to calm me down.”
“You? Nervous?” I ask.
“Oh, Katie.” Her smile is soft, knowing. “Love makes fools of us all. But here’s the secret—the nerves don’t matter. The dress doesn’t matter. Even the wedding doesn’t matter. What matters is what comes after. That is everything.”
My heart squeezes as Rose turns to face me, wisdom etched in the deep lines on her face. “The real love story isn’t in the grand gestures or perfect moments,” she says. “It’s showing up. Every single day. It’s the coffee they bring you when you’re exhausted. The way they hold your hand in the doctor’s waiting room without being asked. The quiet assurance of ‘I’m here and I’m not going anywhere’ when life feels like it’s falling apart.”
I don’t understand why, but the truth of her words is exactly what I need to hear.
“Love isn’t about control,” Rose continues. “It’s about trust. About letting someone see all your messy parts and they love you anyway.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat.
“This is why I tell Enrico divorce is never option,” Caterina announces, breaking the heavy moment with a grin. She rubs her swollen belly. “Murder? Maybe. Divorce? Never.”
Rose laughs. “He’s a special man, your Enrico.”
“Shh!” Caterina waves her hands frantically, nearly knocking over a vase of roses. “Don’t let him hear you say that. His head is already too big to fit through doorways.”
***
A short while later, the party is in full swing—the night alive with the sound of laughter and conversation. The courtyard is transformed with string lights twinkling like captured stars, casting warm hues over the weathered stone terrace. Candles flicker in the soft evening breeze, their flames dancing in rhythm with the music floating through the air.
My professional pride wants to catalog every detail I got right—the way the vintage crystal vases throw light across the tables, how the wildflowers soften the ancient stone walls with splashes of pink and white. The Forever in Love banner gleams in gold script above the dance floor, Stan’s exact request brought to life. Simple. Elegant.
Tables groan under the weight of a feast fit for royalty: charcuterie boards overflowing with meats and cheeses, breads bursting from their baskets, and enough wine to drown a small village. There’s a sweet scent of fermenting grapes in the air. I should be basking in this perfect moment; instead, my anxiety is doing backflips every time I see Matteo.
He’s leaning against a wooden beam at the edge of the terrace, devastatingly handsome in his dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal those distracting forearms. The light catches the shadows in his eyes—the tension in his jaw. Something’s wrong. The realization sits like lead in my stomach.
When I first arrived in this dress—the red one that usually makes his eyes go dark and hungry—he barely glanced at me. Just a quick kiss on the cheek and a murmured “bellissima” before he was gone again, slipping away to handle yet another mysterious call.
No smoldering looks.
No suggestive Italian whispers.
None of the electricity that normally crackles between us.
My brain is going into overdrive trying to figure out what I did wrong.
“Katie.” I hear Stan’s warm voice. He’s beaming, his bow tie endearingly crooked and his cheeks flushed with happiness. “You did an amazing job. It’s… perfect. My wish has come true tonight.”
“Stan, you don’t have to thank me. Your love for Rose is the reason this night is so magical.”
Stan pauses, his hand reaching out to grasp the back of a nearby chair. I look at him, concerned, as he takes a deep breath. “Just a dizzy spell,” he says with a chuckle, dabbing the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “Comes with the territory when you’re as old as dirt.”
“Can I get you anything? Water? A cane?”
“Nah, I’m fine. I don’t need any fuss.” He straightens up. “I was hoping, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to make my speech now?”
“Of course.”
The seniors settle into their seats as I lead Stan toward the dance area—to his Rose, who’s glowing in her elegant lace dress. I hand him the microphone, and the crowd falls silent—the magic of the moment enveloping us all.
Stan whistles at Rose, then starts his vows. “My darling Rose, it’s been sixty years, and I still think you’re kinda cute.”
She giggles.
“I tell you I love you all the time, but it’s never enough. Put simply, you’re the one. My best friend. The girl I love above all else.”
Rose smiles at him through her tears, radiant as an angel. They do a little shuffle toward each other and embrace—a forever hug. It’s absolute heaven to be part of this.
“You’re my partner in every sense. My confidant, my soulmate. We’ve had a beautiful life together, the best… Today I pledge to you my eternal love. Thank you for giving me the greatest honor of my life—the gift of being your husband.”
Someone shouts, “Saluti!” and wine glasses clink together like bells as Stan leans to kiss Rose. I blink back tears, but my gaze is only on Matteo. For a split second, our eyes meet and the pain I see there steals my breath. He breaks away, and it feels like he’s retreating to a place that I can’t follow.
For a moment, I wonder if he’s thinking about his parents, about the love they had—the memories they built together. I want to go to him, but I’ve got a job to do.
I take the mic back from Stan, forcing a smile. “Stan and Rose, I have a surprise for you.”
Otto steps forward with his borrowed violin, polished to a mirror shine (seriously, Caterina got everything on my list).
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say, addressing the crowd, “Stan and Rose will re-create the first wedding dance with the song that started it all sixty years ago. Otto, take it away.”
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. He begins to play “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” and the notes float through the air as if a spell is being cast. Stan brings Rose to the dancing space with infinite tenderness, and they move together like they’ve been practicing this moment for a lifetime.
Which, I guess they have.
The song ends, and for a moment, there’s silence—then thunderous applause, loud and joyful, as Stan and Rose share another kiss.
I start the playlist on my phone, and couples pair up once more. Matteo’s disappeared again, taking another piece of my heart with him. I wish I knew what was wrong—or how to fix it.
What has changed between last night and now? Between “stay with me” and whatever this is.
I’m interrupted by Howie’s smooth Southern drawl. “If I could have your attention for just a moment!”
He timidly approaches the dance area, somehow appearing both bold and terrified. His white linen shirt is artfully rumpled, giving him the appearance of a retired billionaire on vacation—which he is. As he raises his wine glass, his hand shakes slightly.
“Please join me in a toast,” he says. “First, to our lovely hosts, Katie and Caterina, for putting together the finest celebration I’ve ever had the pleasure of attending.”
There’s polite applause, and my cheeks heat up as guests look my way. Caterina beams in delight.
“But most importantly,” Howie says, raising his glass higher, “to Stan and Rose. Sixty years of love, laughter, and partnership. What an incredible legacy y’all have built together. Here’s to you!”
Glasses lift and a chorus of saluti rings out. I think that’s the end of it, but Howie shifts his stance and locks his gaze onto Aunt Deb, seated at a nearby table. And then… he drops the bombshell.
“I never thought I’d find a love like theirs until I met Deb. She makes love seem timeless—still a possibility for us old-timers.”
Aunt Deb is a ghost. My fearless, filter-less aunt who treats life like her own personal Broadway show watches Howie with an expression I’ve never seen before.
“Deborah Fox,” Howie says, his voice filled with reverence, “you are a force of nature. A woman who lights up every room she enters. You make life more colorful, more exciting, more… everything. In a few short weeks, you made me experience things I didn’t think were possible at my age. I feel young, alive… in love.”
The terrace goes so quiet I can hear champagne bubbles rising from glasses. He takes the deepest breath of his life.
“I’ve had my share of adventures,” Howie continues, reaching into his pocket. “But I know now they mean nothing without you. Deborah, my sweet tea, will you do me the honor of spending the rest of our days together?”
And then he pulls out a ring.
Not just a ring. A freaking boulder. A sapphire so massive it could anchor a yacht, surrounded by enough diamonds to make a chandelier jealous.
But Aunt Deb’s face… is all wrong. Where’s the drama? The flair? The embarrassing speech about cosmic connection and sexual awakening?
“I’d get down on one knee,” Howie adds with that slow Texas smile that usually makes Aunt Deb purr like a satisfied cat, “but these old joints wouldn’t forgive me. So let’s pretend I did, darlin’.”
Aunt Deb? She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak, her bewildered face revealing that she’s as surprised as the rest of us. I can’t quite discern her look—she’s thunderstruck.
This man is deeply in love with you Aunt Deb. What are you waiting for?
“Some people say you’re a bit much, but for me… you’re not enough. Marry me?”
Finally she stands, placing a hand gently on his arm. “Oh, Howie,” she says softly, without her usual sparkle. “You’re an incredible man. And these weeks with you have been… unforgettable. No, that’s not the right word. Life-changing.”
The room collectively holds its breath, waiting for Deb’s answer.
Silence.
Deb’s face…
Crumbles.
“But I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.”
Then, in true Deborah Fox fashion, she sweeps off the terrace like Cinderella fleeing the ball.
What the fuck?
The ring glints in the candlelight one last time as Howie lowers it, his face a masterclass in dignified devastation. It’s the kind of heartbreak where you want to hug him before hunting down the offender—except in this case, that person is my aunt, and this situation is way above my emotional pay grade.
The crowd’s collective discomfort ripples through the terrace like one giant social anxiety tsunami.
My event-planner brain kicks into crisis mode, pure muscle memory from years of handling disasters. I snatch my phone off the table, fingers flying as I pull up my emergency “save the night” playlist. The opening notes of an upbeat tune burst through the speakers.
“Let’s keep this party going!” I sound like a cheerleader who’s trying too hard, but desperate times call for fake enthusiasm. “Everyone back on the floor!”
Caterina, bless her pregnant heart, reads the room. “Enrico, mi amore,” she shouts, “let’s groove!”
The tension breaks. The music summons couples back to the dancing space like embers reignited by a gust of wind. I shoot Caterina a look of gratitude and slip away, following the trail of broken dreams and designer perfume that my aunt left behind.
I find her on the front porch of the vineyard house, a disco ball of sadness in her sequined dress. The moonlight catches every sparkle, but she’s not her usual center-of-attention self.
“Aunt Deb? Are you okay?”
“Of course I am, darling.”
The laugh she lets out sounds like it hurts. “At my age, forever is a little too close to the truth, Katie-kins.” There’s something in her voice I’ve never heard before—fear maybe? “You’re young. Forever doesn’t mean the same thing to you.”
I keep my mouth shut. No spreadsheets or lists can fix this moment.
She releases a breath that seems to come from her soul. “This ain’t my first rodeo, kid. Or my first proposal.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t you worry.”
“But—”
“Go back to the party.” She cuts me off with a wave of her bejeweled hand. “You worked your butt off to make it perfect. Don’t waste it on me.”
I hesitate, my chest tight with worry. But there’s something in her expression—a plea for space, for time to process. For once, the woman who’s never met a moment she couldn’t turn into a production needs silence.
“You threw one hell of a party, kiddo,” she says softly. “Really. It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks, Aunt Deb.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have. I leave her to her thoughts under the Tuscan moon, surrounded by the gentle chorus of crickets.
***
The party stretches endlessly around me, a blur of twinkling lights and laughter. I can’t take one more second of this—watching Matteo avoid me and pretending my heart isn’t being shredded with every nonreturned glance. Each beat of the music feels like it’s counting down to something terrible, and I’m done waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Tomorrow we’ll tour Rome. Our last day. And I’ll be damned if I’m leaving this country without knowing what changed. My body physically aches for answers, for his touch, for anything but this endless void between us.
My eyes scan the crowd, ignoring the happy couples swaying to the music. Then I spot him keeping a low profile off to the side of the crowd. Something inside me snaps.
No fucking way. He doesn’t get to sulk in the shadows while I’m drowning in confusion and hurt.
Before my brain can convince me otherwise, I’m crossing the terrace with determination coursing through my veins. My fingers wrap around his bicep— God, his skin is warm —and I pull him toward the vineyard. “We need to talk. Right now.”
He resists for a moment, muscle tensing under my grip, but then something in him just… lets go. His body deflates like a punctured balloon, the fight seeping out, and he lets me escort him away from the party. The vineyard sprawls out around us, with moonlight turning the leaves silver and the air thick with anticipation, ready for heartbreak.
“What’s going on?” My voice comes out harder than I mean it to, but I’m past caring. “And don’t you dare say nothing. You’ve been avoiding me all night like I’m carrying the plague in this dress.”
“I’ve had things on my mind. Business things. Not every minute can be about you, Katie.”
“Excuse me? Since when do I make it all about me?”
His eyes finally meet mine, dark and distant. “Since the moment you walked into my life.”
“Why are you doing this?” My voice cracks like thin ice, betraying every emotion I’m trying to hide. “I see right through you, you know. Your eyes give you away.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“That’s such bullshit.” I step closer, my heart thundering against my ribs. “I know when you’re lying. I knew it the first day we met, when you tried to convince me your stupid Tower of Pisa pickup line actually works.”
His laugh is bitter, empty. “You mean when you were lying about Jared?”
“What happened from last night to now? Because the man who asked me to stay with him, who held me like I was something precious—he wouldn’t be acting like this.”
He shakes his head, looking away. “It was a dream. A beautiful lie. We’d never last.”
“Why?” I move even closer, forcing myself into his space. “Give me the real reason.”
“Because we’re too different. We want different lives.”
“Different lives? I don’t even recognize the life I wanted before you. Miss Perfect Plan, with her five-year goals and retirement portfolio, started at twenty-five. You wrecked that woman. Made me dream bigger. Want wilder.”
“Katie.” My name sounds like a prayer for mercy. “Please don’t make this harder.”
“No, you don’t get the easy out.” Another step closer. The pulse in his throat betrays him. “At least Jared was a man about it—he looked me in the eye when he said he didn’t want me.”
Pain flashes across his face so raw it sends my stomach plummeting. “ Cristo , no. Katie, you’re… you’re perfection. It’s not you—”
“Oh my God.” My voice trembles like a wire about to snap. “Are you actually going to say ‘it’s not you, it’s me’? Tell me, is that line just as pathetic in Italian?”
“Stop.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Please just stop.”
“Or what?” A tear escapes, tracing down my cheek. “You’ll keep breaking my heart? Too late.”
“Please.” His voice cracks. “I can’t watch you cry.”
“Then you shouldn’t have made me fall in love with you.” The words rip out of me. “But here we are. You get to hurt me, but my tears are too much? That’s not how this works. I can’t compartmentalize my emotions into a nice tidy binder and file them away.”
The silence hangs in the air, thick with everything he won’t say.
I continue, “I have never felt the way I do when I’m with you. I thought I knew what love was, but God, I was so wrong. I burn for you, ache for you, and every cell in my body recognizes you. So whatever you’re battling tonight? It’s tearing me apart because that’s what real love does—it binds you to someone so tightly that their pain becomes yours.”
I step closer until there’s barely a breath between us. His hands are still shoved in his pockets like he’s physically restraining himself from touching me, but he doesn’t back away. The air crackles with electricity, threatening to spark and consume us both.
“I love you, Matteo,” I whisper. “And you love me too. Your mouth lies but your body can’t. I see you’re scared.”
“I’m not afraid,” he whispers weakly as if he’s trying to convince himself.
“Liar.” I inch closer. “You’ve spent your whole life running away from love. But it caught you anyway. You fell for me.”
I’m so close that his hot breath is on my skin. Every muscle in his body is straining toward mine even as he holds himself back. The moonlight catches his face, illuminating the war in his eyes.
“See what you’ve done to me,” I rasp, the words scraping my throat raw. “I’m ruined just like you wanted. For every other man, for my old life, for every notion I had about love. I’ll never be the same because of you. Say something, dammit!”
He says nothing. The silence feels like a hand around my throat, squeezing until the last bit of hope dies. Tears spill over, each one burning like acid down my cheeks. The woman who plans everything, who has a backup plan for her backup plans, finally admits defeat.
“Right. Of course.” My voice sounds empty. “I guess I’ll add you to my collection of men who couldn’t love me back.”
I have to leave, right now. Each step away is like walking on broken glass. Don’t look back. Don’t—
His grip is a steel trap, locking around my wrist, yanking me back against his chest. His mouth comes down on mine with crushing force, stealing my breath, my thoughts, my sanity. The kiss tastes like goodbye and hello and everything in between. His fingers tangle in my hair, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll evaporate if he loosens his grip. I melt into him, my fingers gripping his shirt like an anchor.
“Tell me you love me,” I beg between kisses. “Please. Tell me to stay.”
His mouth claims mine again, harder, deeper, like he’s etching himself into my soul. His tongue slides against mine as one hand grips my jaw. The other hand presses into my lower back until there’s not even air between us, until I can feel his heartbeat hammering against mine.
“Katie,” he says like it’s a confession on his lips. “You’re the beat of my heart, mi amore .”
A panicked scream pierces the air, freezing my blood solid.
“What was that?” I breathe, stomach knotting with dread.
“Hurry,” he says.
We sprint back to the gathering, fingers locked together, terror driving us forward. The crowd stands in a tight circle, gathered around something on the ground. No… not something. Someone.
“Jesus no,” I gasp. There, unmoving in the center of the crowd, is Stan. Sweet, beloved Stan.
Beside him, Enrico’s hands pump his chest in a desperate rhythm. My hands cover my mouth in horror as I watch Stan’s lifeless body jostle limply with each thrust. Matteo takes over, his CPR movements precise, despite the fear that pales his face.
“Caterina!” The panic in Enrico’s voice sends chills down my spine. “Ambulanza! Non respira!”
I catch Rose as her knees buckle.
One moment. And everything changes.
One heartbeat between love and loss.