Prologue #2
“You just said I was probably fired.”
“I was joking. Clearly my humor needs work.” He takes a step toward me, and I hate that my heart lurches sideways in my chest. “Work your season. Pick your grapes. Avoid your pigeons. I’ll stay out of your way.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you being nice to me? I just committed a felony against you.”
“I don’t think tackling is a felony.”
“It’s at least a misdemeanor. Aggravated tackling with intent to humiliate.”
He laughs again, softer this time, and the sound of it makes my stomach flip. “Because you’re the most honest person I’ve talked to in months. Maybe years. Everyone else either wants a piece of me or is afraid of me or both. And you just…”
“Knocked you into the dirt and insulted you.”
“Like I said. Honest.”
I don’t know what to do with that. With any of this. So I fall back on what I know, which is deflection and sarcasm. “Well. Thanks for not getting me deported, I guess.”
“You’re welcome.” He reaches up and brushes some dust from his shoulder. “Though technically, you still owe me.”
“For what?”
“The shirt.” He plucks at the ruined fabric, mournful as a widower. “It’s a tragedy, really.”
“You said you weren’t going to tell anyone!”
“I said I wouldn’t tell anyone about the pigeon.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “The shirt is a separate matter entirely.”
“That’s - you can’t just-”
“I think dinner will cover it.”
I blink at him, certain I’ve misheard over the pounding of my own pulse. “Excuse me?”
“Dinner. Tomorrow night. There’s a place in the hills I like.
” He says it like it’s already decided, like I’m not standing here in my work boots covered in gravel.
“You’re going to come with me, and you’re going to tell me more about your extensive list of irrational fears, and I’m going to consider the debt settled. ”
“That sounds like a date.”
“Does it? Interesting.” He doesn’t look remotely sorry.
“I don’t date my employers.” I cross my arms, which does nothing to hide the fact that I’m considering it.
“I’m not your employer. My father is. I don’t even work here officially.”
“That’s a technicality.”
“I love technicalities.”
He’s grinning now, full and genuine, and I should say no.
Every smart part of my brain is screaming at me to say no, to walk away, to finish my harvest contract and get the hell out of Italy before I do anything stupid like develop feelings for a billionaire who probably dates supermodels and forgets their names by morning.
But it’s the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m a puzzle he wants to solve. Like I’m interesting. And I haven’t felt interesting in a long, long time.
“One dinner,” I hear myself say. “To pay off the shirt.”
“One dinner.”
“And if you’re boring, I’m leaving.”
“I’ll do my best to be entertaining.”
“And if you bring up the pigeon thing again, I’m pushing you into whatever body of water is nearby.”
“There’s a waterfall. By the place I’m taking you.” He grins. “I’ll take my chances.”
***
He picks me up at seven the next evening in a car that costs more than my entire education, and I give him hell about it for the whole drive into the hills.
We find our fight right where we left it, trading insults like we’ve known each other years instead of hours, and by the time we reach the waterfall I’ve called him at least six unfriendly things and he’s given every single one back with interest.
The waterfall is small but perfect, tucked into a rocky hillside with a pool at the base that catches the moonlight like liquid silver.
We sit on the rocks with wine he brought from the estate, and somewhere between the second glass and the third, the fighting dissolves into a different thing entirely.
“Can I ask you something,” I say, “without you getting weird about it?”
“That depends entirely on the something.”
“Why’d you really chase me down about a ruined shirt? You could’ve had me fired and never thought about it again. That’s more your speed, I’d have guessed.”
He’s quiet for a second, turning his glass. “Because you looked at me and saw a man in a stupid expensive watch. Not the empire. Not the last name.” He says empire like it’s a weight he’s carrying. “Do you know how long it’s been since someone talked to me instead of to what I’m going to inherit?”
“So I’m a novelty.”
“You’re a relief.” He says it plainly, and it lands harder than a line would.
“My father raised me to believe the second you let anyone see the real thing, they use it to hurt you. So you don’t.
You keep it somewhere no one can reach.” He looks at me.
“You reached it in about four minutes flat, yelling at me about a pigeon.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I do what I always do, which is deflect. “For the record, the pigeon was genuinely terrifying.”
“I believe you.” He almost smiles. “Your turn. What sent a Texas girl running to the other side of the world to pick grapes?”
“My parents split when I was twelve and forgot to tell either of their kids it wasn’t our job to hold the pieces.
” It comes out easier than it should, out here in the dark with the water going.
“I worked three jobs through college being the responsible one. The one who fixed things. I came to Italy because for one season I wanted to be someone who didn’t have to. ”
“And how’s that going.”
“I tackled a billionaire into the dirt on day three, so. Mixed results.”
He laughs, that full, head-back thing, and the sound of it lands in me somewhere I decide not to examine.
We talk until the moon is high and the wine is gone and my throat aches from laughing at his terrible jokes.
“You should go,” he says finally, though he doesn’t move. “Early harvest tomorrow.”
“Probably.” I don’t move either.
“This was just to settle the debt.”
“Obviously.”
“I’m not even sure I like you.”
“The feeling’s extremely mutual.”
We’re sitting close now. So close I can see the moonlight reflected in those pale eyes, can feel the warmth of him through the cool night air. His gaze drops to my mouth and back up, and heat, reckless and sudden, unfurls in my chest.
I kiss him.
I close the distance between us and press my mouth to his, and he makes a sound like I’ve knocked all the air out of him, like I’ve tackled him all over again, and his hand flies back to grab the rock behind me because he’s swaying, actually swaying, and I feel powerful in a way I’ve never felt in my life.
When we break apart, he’s breathing hard. So am I.
“Mel,” he says, and my name sounds different in his accent, sounds precious and foreign and new.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin it.”
He doesn’t.
He just pulls me back in, and the waterfall roars in the darkness, and I think: I’m in so much trouble with this one.