Chapter 13 Matteo
MATTEO
Turned out, tequila was not so easy to come by in a sleepy coastal town well past midnight.
“I told you it was a long shot,” Nicola muttered as we wandered down a cobbled side street, lit by string lights and the occasional flickering lantern. She kicked a pebble and sighed dramatically. “No tequila. What a tragedy.”
“You doubt my resourcefulness,” I shook my head in a low laugh.
“I doubt your sanity.”
“Same thing,” I grinned, then pointed toward a small shop window glowing in the distance.
“Look. Open late.”
She gave me a skeptical look, but followed.
Fifteen minutes later, we were walking out with two bottles of wine, a sleeve of biscotti, and a bag of the kind of overpriced chips that only taste good at 2:00 a.m. on vacation.
“No tequila,” she said smugly.
“Shut up and open the wine.”
We wandered until we found a hidden hilltop overlook, a crumbling stone wall, and a view that could make a poet out of a cynic.
Below us, the sea glowed dark blue and endless, the stars bright enough to see your whole past and maybe your future too.
Nicola hopped up on the low wall and sat cross-legged, her sundress fluttering in the breeze.
We drank straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth between bites of cookies and chips, our knees bumping, shoulders brushing, everything soft and close.
I glanced at her, lit in moonlight, wild hair and sharp tongue, and the kind of eyes that look like they dared you to get too close.
Rather than her usual pin straight hair and red lips, she was devoid of bright lipstick tonight, and her hair was down and curly, falling off her shoulders in the light breeze.
It was so easy to get lost in trying to memorize every inch of Nicola.
I could spend a lifetime doing it, and it would be a worthwhile life.
But the crashing waves made me turn back to the sea.
“Look,” I said, pointing, “There. See that stone archway down there?”
She squinted. “Near the tree?”
“There’s a stairwell. It goes all the way down to the beach.”
She followed my line of sight, catching on fast.
I let the grin spread, slow and dangerous. “Wanna go swimming?”
“At”—she checked her phone—“two forty-two in the morning?”
“It’s technically tomorrow now. A brand-new day. Anything’s possible.”
“That sounds like something you read off a Pinterest quote board.”
“Don’t knock my Pinterest boards” I nudged her foot with mine. “Come on. Skinny dip. It’ll be fun.”
“Have you met me?”
“Mmhm, becoming rather a big fan.”
She rolled her eyes, but I saw the way her lips twitched, betraying the smile she didn’t want to give me. I hopped off the wall and offered her my hand.
“This is such a bad idea,” she muttered, but she took it anyway.
We tiptoed down the steps, trying not to spill the wine or wake up any sleeping Portofinese residents. The stairwell was narrow and steep, carved into the side of the cliff, and by the time we reached the bottom, the soft rush of the water surrounded us.
It was quiet. Just the stars above, the sea stretching endlessly, and us.
Nicola toed off her sandals and hesitated.
“What?” I asked, already tugging off my shirt, “You scared?”
“No,” she scoffed, peeling off her dress and folding it neatly over a rock, “I just don’t trust you not to drown and make me drag your dumb body back to shore.”
“I’m a great swimmer for your information, Moretti.”
“I bet you dog paddle.”
She turned her back to me and walked into the waves in just her black lace underwear, moonlight catching the water clinging to her skin. I swore I forgot how to breathe.
I stripped and followed her in, the water frigid and biting until we were both waist-deep, then chest-deep, floating side by side.
“This was a good idea,” she admitted, her voice softer now, almost reluctant.
“Told you.”
The silence stretched comfortably between us, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of waves.
“When did you get your tattoo?” she asked. I had a pair of swallows on my thigh, usually under clothing and unseen, but Nicola picked up on most things. I was slowly realizing she was rather perceptive.
“Few years ago now. There’s this old church a town over from the vineyard.
My parents got married there, same as my grandparents and great grandparents.
Swallows were around almost every time we visited.
My grandfather didn’t like them much, but my grandmother did.
She said life should be lived loudly and that she liked that they found homes where they could.
They were resilient. I always wanted a tattoo too, so figured it should be the first.” I was staring at the stars as I talked, floating on my back.
“I like it,” she said quietly. I felt like I could fucking soar at the casual compliment.
She looked so damn beautiful under the moonlight it was almost painful.
Her cheeks were red from the chill. I looked at the mole on her left temple.
I remembered reading once that moles and freckles were reminiscent of long-lost loves, of a spot where they were kissed over and over again and that after however many lives were lived, it left a permanent reminder.
I liked that theory. I wanted to kiss her temple, wanted to kiss her forehead, and her nose and her lips.
It took up most of my thoughts these days.
Then she bumped her shoulder into mine. “You’re staring.”
“You’re stunning,” I admitted in a breathy whisper, unable to cover it with a line or make it less serious. Because she was the most stunning woman here in the sea under the moonlight.
She turned toward me slowly. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not. Not on wine, anyway.” She burst out laughing first and I was quick to follow.
She splashed water at me before I pulled her close to me.
Her arms wrapped around my neck as if in response.
Her eyes darkened, pupils wide in the moonlight, and I felt the shift in the air. Like everything was tipping.
“Matteo—”
“I know. But it’s just vacation; it doesn’t count,” I reassured her with the words I knew she wanted to hear.
“It doesn’t,” she whispered, even as she floated closer.
I let my fingers brush her waist, slowly trailing up to her bra line, teasing along the wire.
She breathed in sharply but didn’t pull away.
Our lips met, and it was familiar and warm against the cool water around us. The kiss was slow at first—wet, soft, teasing—until she grabbed my jaw with both hands and pulled me deeper. And I went willingly, hungrily.
Her body pressed against mine, slick from the water, our mouths moving like a storm building at sea, dangerous and inevitable.
I pushed her gently against a flat rock, kissing down her neck, tasting salt and her skin and the wine we shared like a secret.
She gasped as I whispered against her mouth, “Vacation, right?”
She kissed me back hard enough to bruise, and I felt myself fall even more.
I woke up slow, tangled in hotel sheets that still smelled like her.
The morning sun bled through the sheer curtains and casted pale golden light across the bed. Nicola was still asleep beside me, half on her stomach, one leg stretched out over the cool linen. Her hair was a mess across the pillow, and her lips were parted just enough to make my chest twist.
She looked soft like this. Peaceful, even.
Like the warzone we usually were in didn’t exist between us. Like we hadn’t spent the last year arguing across race paddocks and pretending we didn’t watch each other when the other wasn’t looking. God, I could wake up like this for the rest of my life.
I let myself imagine it—for one selfish minute.
That she was mine.
That this was real.
But then she shifted in her sleep, murmured something unintelligible, and the spell snapped. I was reminded exactly where we were. Portofino. The rulebook echoing in my head: It doesn’t count. That’s what we agreed on. This vacation was a bubble, a break, not real life.
I slipped out of bed carefully, grabbed my hoodie and wallet, and left the room as quietly as I could and headed toward the main part of the hotel past the private villas.
The hotel hallways were quiet, the early morning light pouring through the tall arched windows.
I followed the scent of fresh coffee down to the ground floor lounge, where a few early risers were grabbing breakfast from the café bar.
And of course, Alexander was already there.
“Morning,” he said, calm and polished even in a T-shirt and linen shorts. He was fixing up two coffees on a tray. “You’re up early.”
“Could say the same to you,” I replied, heading straight to the espresso machine. “Let me guess—coffee delivery for Lucia?”
He didn’t answer right away, just added a spoon of sugar to one of the cups like he knew exactly how she took it.
I smirked. “Boyfriend of the year. Bold strategy.”
“She deserves it,” he said simply.
Something about the way he said it—steady, no hesitation—made my chest ache a little. He meant it. Lucia had grounded him in a way I never expected to see. He looked happy.
“I’ve never seen her like this,” I admitted. “She used to be…always on edge. Distrusting.”
“She still doesn’t trust half the people around her,” Alex said, finally looking at me, “But she trusts me. And I don’t take that for granted.”
I nodded slowly. “You make her better.”
“She makes me better.”
And damn, if that didn’t hit harder than I expected it to.
Before I could say anything else, he slid a juice box onto the tray and raised an eyebrow at me. “Gianna wants a pool day. Said to meet her down there or she’ll start without us.”
I laughed. “She’s not even three and already planning social events?”
“She demanded snacks and floaties,” he deadpanned, “I’m just the delivery guy.”
“She gets it from you, I’m sure. I’ll see you down there,” I said, grabbing a coffee to-go. “Tell my girl her favorite person is on the way.”
“She said Monty’s her favorite,” Alexander called as I walked off.
“Rude.”
I headed back to the elevators, taking the long way through the lobby, trying to shake the image of Nicola asleep in that bed,the mess of us from last night still clung to my skin.