3. Mel
— ? —
Mel
Then
Sneaking out of a billionaire’s estate takes more planning than you’d think.
“Nobody saw us leave?” I’m half-jogging to keep up with Santino’s ridiculous long stride, my hand wrapped in his, a picnic basket swinging from his other arm like we’re in some kind of romantic comedy where the rich guy isn’t supposed to be working on quarterly reports right now.
“Not a soul.” He glances back at me, grinning, and my chest flips over. “I told my mother I had a headache. She thinks I’m in bed.”
“With a picnic basket?”
“She didn’t see the basket.”
“And the wine?” I nod at the bulge under his arm.
“Hidden under my jacket.”
“And the blanket?”
“Mel.” He stops walking, turns to face me in the moonlit path between the vines. “Do you want to interrogate my escape tactics, or do you want to see where I’m taking you?”
I pretend to consider this. “Both. I can multitask.”
He laughs, that full, head-back laugh I’ve become addicted to over the past three months, and tugs me forward. “Come on. We’re almost there.”
The path winds through the oldest part of the vineyard, past gnarled vines that have been producing grapes for longer than either of us has been alive. The air smells like summer and earth and possibility, and I can’t stop smiling even though my face hurts from it.
Three months. That’s how long it’s been since I tackled this man into the dirt and changed the entire trajectory of my life. Three months of secret dinners and stolen kisses and conversations that last until the sun comes up. Three months of falling so hard I can’t see the ground anymore.
“You’re being very mysterious about this whole thing,” I say. “Should I be concerned? Are you luring me into the woods to murder me?”
“Yes, Mel. I’m going to murder you with prosciutto and expensive cheese.”
“I’ve always said that’s how I want to go.”
He squeezes my hand, and even that small touch sends heat racing up my arm. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I do.” His voice drops, goes soft and serious in a way that makes my stomach swoop. “I really do.”
We emerge from the vines, and I stop breathing.
The lake stretches out before us, silver-black under the moon, and at the far end the waterfall catches the light and turns it to magic. The same waterfall where we had our first date. The same pool where we sat on the rocks and talked until the wine ran out and neither of us wanted to leave.
“Santino…”
“I thought we could make it official.” He sets the basket down, spreads the blanket on the soft grass near the water’s edge. “Our place. Just ours. Somewhere we can always come when the rest of the world is too much.”
I watch him fuss with the blanket corners, this enormous, powerful man who could buy anything he wants arranging a picnic like it’s the most important task he’s ever undertaken. And my chest cracks open around a feeling that’s been building for weeks.
“Get over here,” I say.
He looks up. “I’m not done setting-”
“I don’t care about the setup.” I cross to him, grab the front of his shirt, pull him down to my level. “I care about you.”
The kiss is supposed to be quick. A punctuation mark, an emphasis. But his hand comes up to cup my face, and he makes a sound against my mouth that vibrates through my whole body, and suddenly quick is the last thing either of us wants.
“Mel,” he breathes between kisses. “The food-”
“Can wait.”
“I brought chocolate.”
That makes me pause. “What kind of chocolate?”
“The expensive kind. From that place in Florence you said you wanted to try.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “You remembered that?”
“I remember everything you say.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch so gentle it makes me ache. “You mentioned it three weeks ago. You said you’d never had really good chocolate and your college budget only stretched to Hershey’s.”
“That was a throwaway comment.”
“Nothing you say is throwaway to me.”
And there it is again. That crack in my chest, widening into a thing both terrifying and wonderful.
“Okay,” I say. “Okay, show me the chocolate.”
He grins and reaches for the basket, and I watch his hands as he unpacks it, bread, cheese, olives, a bottle of wine that probably costs more than my monthly rent, and a small box tied with ribbon that he presents with the careful ceremony of a man defusing a bomb.
“For you.”
I open it. Inside, six perfect chocolate truffles nestle in paper cups, each one a work of art.
“Santino, this is-”
“Try one.”
I pick up the darkest one, bite into it, and my eyes actually close from how good it is. Rich and bitter and sweet all at once, melting on my tongue like sin made edible.
“Oh my God.”
“Good?”
“This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Better than me?”
My eyes fly open. He’s smirking at me, the bastard, all pleased with himself for making me blush.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say, recovering. “You’ve been very gentlemanly for three months. Suspiciously gentlemanly.”
“I wanted to do this right.”
“By giving me blue ovaries?”
He chokes on nothing. “I - what - that’s not a real thing.”
“It’s absolutely a real thing.” I pop the rest of the truffle in my mouth, chew thoughtfully. “I’m suffering, Santino. Medically. You should be concerned.”
“I’m very concerned.” His voice has gone rough, his eyes dark in the moonlight. “How can I help?”
I reach into the box, select another truffle, milk chocolate this time, and take a deliberate bite. The filling oozes out, rich and glossy, and some of it catches on my lip.
“Oops,” I say, and I watch his whole body tighten.
“Mel.”
“Hmm?”
“You have chocolate on your…”
“Do I?” I don’t wipe it off. Instead, I scoop a little more onto my finger, reach out, and smear it deliberately across his cheek. “Now so do you.”
He stares at me. “Did you just-”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You just-”
I lean in, slow and deliberate, and lick the chocolate off his cheekbone. I feel the shudder run through him, feel the groan that comes out of his chest like it’s been living there for months, desperate and undone.
“There,” I whisper against his skin. “All clean.”
His hand fists in my hair. Not rough, never rough with him, but firm, tilting my head back so he can look at me.
“You,” he says, voice wrecked, “are going to be the death of me.”
“Promise?”
The kiss isn’t gentle this time. It’s consuming, devouring, every careful restraint he’s maintained for three months burning away in the space between our mouths.
I moan against him and his tongue sweeps in, tasting the chocolate on my lips, and the sound he makes in response travels straight down my spine and settles between my thighs.
I break away laughing, breathless, and run.
Not far, just down the slope toward the water, toward the cave behind the waterfall that I spotted our first night here. I can hear him behind me, his footsteps heavy on the grass, and I shriek when he catches me around the waist and lifts me clean off my feet.
“Caught you.” His breath is hot against my ear.
“Took you long enough.”
He spins me in his arms so we’re face to face, and for a moment we just stand there at the mouth of the little cave, the waterfall roaring beside us, moonlight turning everything silver and strange.
“I love you,” he says.
The words land like stones in still water, sending ripples through everything.
“Santino-”
“I know it’s fast. I know we’ve only been doing this for three months and I’m supposed to be the rational one and my family is going to lose their minds.
But I can’t-” He swallows hard. “I can’t pretend anymore.
I love you. I’ve loved you since you tackled me into the dirt and yelled at me about pigeons. ”
“That was mostly the pigeon’s fault.”
“The pigeon is why I have you. I should send it a fruit basket.”
I laugh, but it comes out wet, and I realize I’m crying. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m honest. You taught me that.” His thumbs brush the tears from my cheeks. “You don’t have to say it back. I don’t want you to feel-”
“I love you too, you enormous idiot.”
His whole face transforms. Like someone turned on a light behind his eyes. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I pull him down into another kiss, softer this time, sweeter. “Now take me into that cave before I change my mind.”
***
The cave is smaller than it looks from outside, barely big enough for both of us, but Santino spreads his jacket on the smooth rock floor and lowers me onto it like I might break.
“Are you sure?” He’s hovering over me, arms braced on either side of my head, and I can see him trembling. This man who runs a global empire, who commands boardrooms and negotiates deals worth billions, shaking because of me. “We can wait. We don’t have to-”
“Santino.” I reach up, cup his face in my hands. “I’m sure. I’ve been sure for weeks. I need you to stop being noble and start being naked.”
He laughs, some of the tension breaking. “You’re very demanding.”
“You’ve had three months to get used to it.”
“I have.” He drops his forehead to mine. “I never want to stop.”
The kiss starts slow, almost reverent. His mouth traces the line of my jaw, the curve of my neck, the hollow of my throat where my pulse is hammering. Every touch asks a question; every sigh I give is the answer.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmurs against my collarbone. “At any point. Swear it.”
“I promise.”
His fingers find the hem of my dress, and he pauses, looks up at me one more time. I nod, and he lifts it over my head with hands that won’t stop shaking.
“God.” His voice is barely a whisper. “Look at you.”
I should feel exposed. Vulnerable. But the way he’s staring at me, like I’m a miracle he can’t quite believe is real, makes me feel powerful instead. Invincible.
“Your turn,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I expected.
He pulls his shirt over his head, and I forget how to breathe. I’ve seen him shirtless before, glimpses through windows, that one time at the harvest festival when he stripped off his button-down to help move barrels, but never like this. Never with intent.