Chapter 8
KICKOFF RETURN: RECEIVING TEAM RUNS BACK THE KICKOFF.
Well, at least Maya didn’t get back in her car and book it out of here once she found out I owned the vineyard. I’ll take any W in the win column.
Especially after the way her personal life has been public fodder for the last few months.
What was Bryce thinking? Since I already know Bryce is a fuckup of the worst magnitude from having played on the same team with him, I don’t credit him with thinking.
But I have to wonder if our offensive line let him get tackled a few too many times on the field that disassociated his cognitive thinking.
After all, Maya is beautiful much in the same way the vineyard is—quiet and peaceful at first glance, but the longer a person stands among the rows of rich vines, the more the details take their breath away.
The way her intelligence shines through her deep blue eyes reminds me of the rich soil that runs through the Piedmont region—complex and full of layers to be uncovered if you’re blessed to dig deeply enough.
The stories she shared about her travels were captivating.
That is, what I heard of them before Bryce would turn the attention back to himself.
Selfish prick.
Still, it looks like I’ll be wearing a hair shirt of guilt by association until I can convince her to have an actual conversation with me about the events of her engagement party.
Her body language says more than her clipped words ever could—stiff shoulders, rigid movements.
Like every time our eyes meet, it costs her soul something.
She leans back against her vehicle, arms crossed, and gives me the kind of look that strips a man cleaner than an early frost hitting the vines in October.
I can’t blame her. Not when she has no idea what I did or didn’t know before that dumpster fire of a video. Using my words won’t be enough this time. I’ll have to earn every ounce of her courtesy, starting with assuring her I’m not the enemy she’s convinced herself I am.
It’s time I suit up for the game of patience.
Because I know I’m going to need it.
“The villa rarely has visitors at this time of year because of harvest,” I explain to Maya when she realizes dinner is limited to a few of us. I greeted her at the foot of the grand staircase, dressed casually in slacks, a jacket, and a button-down.
Maya paired a rich sweater in hues that remind me of the ancient Speyer wine bottle with a cream skirt and boots. When I mention that, she gives me a caustic appraisal. “I think there’s a compliment in there.”
Whipping out my cell phone, I pull up the shots I took of the artifact and hand it to her. “It’s displayed at the Pfalz Historical Museum in Germany.”
Her eyes flick back and forth before she hands me my phone back. My heart skips a beat when the corners of her lips curve upward briefly. “You’re right. I do match it.”
Gesturing her forward, I point out a few of our own treasures as we make our way to the kitchen—a stone chalice, an ancient pouring decanter, an almost perfect bottle. She pauses at each one, reading the description before her stomach muscles groan in protest.
She flushes. “I guess I’m hungrier than I thought.”
“Then let’s get dinner underway.” I guide her into the kitchen, where a charcuterie and vegetable platter has been laid out on the counter.
I’m amused when Maya falls on it like a bear coming out of hibernation.
As she curbs her hunger, I walk up behind the woman at the stove and press an exuberant kiss on the side of her cheek. “Thanks for cooking, Zia Vinnie.”
She swats at me with a spoon before handing her instrument of torture to me and declaring, “You’re going to ruin dinner if you don’t stop with these shenanigans and stir.”
Knowing how serious my aunt is about her Tajarin al tartufo, I stir and introduce her to Maya with my back to them both, not out of disrespect. “Maya, my mother’s sister, Vincenza. Zia Vinnie, Maya Cox. My parents are away for a bit. Otherwise they’d be joining us,” I explain.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs…” Maya starts.
“Just Vinnie, Maya. It’s lovely to finally meet you.”
Maya’s small, “Oh,” has me turning away from the sauce to witness her fists clenching at her side.
Vinnie notices the same. She reaches up and pats Maya on the shoulder. “Even before stupido Bryce and his internet crimes, this one didn’t have any problem talking about you. Often.”
Maya’s eyes lift to mine. Her brow quirks even as she questions, “Really? That’s interesting. How often?”
I turn my back on them both without answering. Gritting my teeth, I likely overwork the sauce as my aunt blathers away about how I follow Maya’s public Instagram and admire the photos she’s taken. “Did you really jump out of a perfectly good plane for that shot, mia cara?”
Maya laughs before admitting, “My best friends asked me the same question.”
“Why would you do such a thing?”
I plate three portions of egg-rich pasta topped with a butter sauce and shavings of white truffle before serving first my aunt, then Maya. Finally, I bring over a plate for myself before offering, “Buon appetito.”
I wait until Maya lifts her fork, twirls her pasta expertly, and slips it past her lush lips. Then that’s when I hear a tiny “Ohh,” escape her lips. Immediately, she lifts another bite to her mouth.
Vinnie takes a bite and nods her approval.
For a while, the only sounds are the scraping of forks and the satisfaction of hunger.
The two women keep up an easy chatter that makes up for my silence.
Instead, I study Maya intently with an ease I haven’t had the opportunity to before.
That is until she turns on me like I’m fresh prosciutto and she’s famished.
“So, your last name is Walsh.”
“It is.”
“You’re half Italian?”
I lean back and lift the glass of our 2021 Chardonnay to my lips. “Closer to three-quarters.”
She leans forward, chin resting on her fist. “Yet, your name is singularly Irish.”
“Blame my father. Apparently, he named me while my mother was still out of it from a C-section.”
Maya’s jaw falls open. “He did not.”
Vinnie confirms, “He did. Troy is named after his paternal grandfather. I was certain my sister—Trish, Patrizia—was going to smother him in his sleep.”
“Troy or his father?” Maya jokes.
“Hey, I didn’t name myself. Why should I take the rap?”
“Because I’m certain you were just as frustrating to your poor mother, keeping her awake at all hours,” she defends.
Since I have no defense against that, I surrender the point to her.
Vinnie shakes her head at us both before a yawn escapes. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, I’m going to retire to my rooms now.” She smiles up at me.
Maya jumps to her feet. “Thank you for cooking.”
“It’s a pleasure when it’s enjoyed so thoroughly. I hope you enjoy your stay at Tenuta delle Ombre.” Squeezing Maya’s outstretched hand, she turns to me to lift her cheek for my kiss. “You have the dishes?”
“Of course, Zia. Sleep well.”
“You too. See you in the morning.” After she departs from the kitchen, a silence falls between Maya and I that isn’t quite comfortable but isn’t as hostile as it was when she first arrived. It’s a relief, but it’s nowhere near enough. Because it’s her. It’s Maya.
I gather plates, stacking them on top of one another as she plays with her fork.
Making a trip over to the sink and compost pile, I handle the dirty mess before returning for the stemmed glassware.
That’s when Maya drops her fork and her polite mask.
She glares at me accusingly. “Okay, Walsh. Explain.”
“Explain what?”
“This—this kindness. You never reached out. Not once. It’s been four months since that night, and here you are, treating me like nothing’s wrong between us.”
I’m about to open my mouth to apologize when her lips tremble and she tacks on, “But before you do, I want to know about your part in that night.”
Shit.