Isabelle #3
I sprang away from him, stumbling slightly, my hand coming up to my lips. They were swollen, tingling. I could still taste him, champagne and mint and something uniquely Femi.
I was suddenly reminded of the problem between us. Kissing was easy. It had always been easy. Making love had been phenomenal, the kind of sex that ruined you for other people.
But our futures? Very different. Different lives, different paths, different dreams, everything.
He wanted a wife, children, a home base. I wanted boutiques in every major city, fashion weeks, my name on labels worn by women. He wanted me to be his. I wanted to be mine first.
We could never work. The math didn’t add up. It wasn’t in the stars for us.
I smoothened the skirt of my dress with shaking hands, backing away from him like he was dangerous. He was dangerous to my peace, my plans, and my carefully constructed life.
“I have to go,” I said, and then I was speed-walking back into the party, practically running my heels clicking frantically against the floor.
But I didn't go toward my family. I couldn't face them yet. Xavier would take one look at my face and know exactly what had happened. Kim, who I knew had been watching me earlier with those too-knowing eyes, would definitely figure it out.
My eyes darted around the room frantically. Where could I possibly hide? Where could I catch my breath, pull myself together, remember who I was?
Before I could think about it further, I made my way to the wine bar at the far right of the rooftop.
I ordered red. Italian. The first thing on the list that looked expensive enough to be good, pointing at it with a finger that trembled slightly. The glass arrived and I gripped it with both hands like it was a lifeline, like it could anchor me to reality.
Breathe. Just breathe.
"You might want to let it open first."
I looked up, startled out of my spiral.
A man was standing a few feet away, near the bar but not behind it. He had sandy brown hair, slightly tousled like he'd been running his hands through it. Strong jaw. Tan skin that suggested time spent outdoors, working with his hands, living a life that involved sun and earth and physical labor.
He wore a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that were surprisingly muscular, dark trousers, no tie. He dressed well but not trying too hard, he looked comfortable in his own skin.
And his eyes, warm brown, watched me with something that looked like amusement mixed with concern. His smile was perfectly innocent, but there was an intelligence behind it that suggested he saw more than he let on.
"The wine," he clarified, gesturing at my glass. "It's been in the bottle all day. Give it a few minutes to breathe. Let the tannins soften. Let it open up."
"Are you always this bossy about other people's drinks?"
He laughed. "Only when they're drinking my wine."
I frowned, looking down at my glass with new interest. "Your wine?"
"My vineyard. In Tuscany." He stepped closer and extended his hand. "Matteo Rossi."
I took his hand automatically, years of social conditioning overriding my current emotional chaos. His grip was firm, his palm slightly callused. Working, honest hands. Not what I expected.
"Isabelle Dubois."
"I know." He released my hand but didn't retreat. "The fashion designer, yes? London?"
"You've heard of me?" I asked, surprised.
"Your spring collection was featured in Corriere della Sera.
My sister sent me the article. She's obsessed with your work.
" His smile widened, showing straight white teeth.
"She has a photograph from your runway show as her phone background.
I've been subjected to several lectures on your use of asymmetrical hemlines and 'architectural draping,' whatever that means. "
I blinked. I hadn't expected that. The Italian press had covered the show, yes, but to have someone's sister, or someone in Tuscany, caring enough to follow my work? It felt surreal. Good, but surreal.
"Tell her thank you."
"I will. She'll be thrilled." He gestured at the empty stool beside me at the bar. "May I?"
I nodded, and he settled onto the stool with the easy grace of someone comfortable in his body.
Up close, I could see the details I'd missed before.
A small scar near his left eyebrow. The laugh lines around his eyes.
The way his hands moved when he talked, expressive and unhurried, painting pictures in the air.
My eyes darted down to his chest. His shirt moved as he shifted, revealing the beginning or end of a tattoo.
I’d like to see that someday.
"So," he said, his voice pulling me back to the present. "What brings you to my humble abode?”
I laughed despite myself. "I was in desperate need of a drink."
His expression softened with what looked like understanding. “I’m glad I could be of service.”
I took a sip of wine, and he was right. It had needed to breathe. The flavors were opening up now, rich and complex. "This is very good."
"Thank you. I've been making it for twelve years." He said it simply, without arrogance. "Since my father died, I took over the vineyard. It was almost nothing then. A few acres, old vines, equipment held together with prayers and duct tape."
"And now?"
"Now we export to fourteen countries. Three restaurants in Florence feature us exclusively. And I'm here, at a fancy party in New York, trying not to bore beautiful women with stories about wine." His smile turned self-deprecating. "I'm not always successful at the not-boring part."
"You're not boring me."
"Give it time."
I laughed, and it felt good. Genuine. “How much time would it require?”
He shrugged. “Depends, how much time do you have?”
I was intrigued by him, pleasantly so. Drawn in despite myself, despite the fact that minutes ago I'd been kissing another man. But the night had already been too much for me to turn my flirt on properly. My flirt was exhausted, battered, hiding somewhere under the ruins of my composure.
So I decided to ease the tension by taking another sip of wine, letting the flavors roll across my tongue. "I don't know, maybe…"
“...alive and spend the rest of your life with me?"
The words cut through the ambient noise like a knife. I immediately whirled around, nearly spilling my wine, and found myself looking at Sebastian on one knee in front of Aria.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed and rushed to my feet, leaving my unfinished wine on the bar, and leaving Matteo Rossi with whatever he'd been about to say.
“Hey, you didn’t…”
I heard someone calling behind me, but I was too excited to look back, too caught up in the moment. I pushed through the crowd to reach them, my brother and his love, my heels clicking rapidly against the floor.
Sebastian caught me in a hug so tight it lifted me off my feet, and for a moment I was eight years old again, being swung around in our father's study, back when things were simpler.
"I'm so happy for you," I said into his shoulder, and meant it with every fiber of my being. My voice came out thick with emotion, tears already pricking at the corners of my eyes.
"Thank you." His voice was rough, choked with feeling. I released him and immediately pulled Aria into my arms. She was still crying, laughing through it, her mascara a lost cause. She’d never looked more beautiful.
"Welcome to the family," I told her, squeezing tight.
"Thank you. Thank you." She squeezed back hard enough to hurt, and I loved her for it. "I can't believe this is happening."
Then, Xavier was there, grinning wider than I'd ever seen him. "We're engaged!" he announced, as if we couldn't see that ourselves, as if the ring on Kim's finger wasn't catching every light in the room.
And before I could process what was happening, we were all screaming and hugging each other in a tangle of limbs and joy and family.
Two engagements. One night.
My grandmother burst into tears, which I’d only seen twice in my entire life.
My mother started hugging everyone within reach, even people she didn’t know, spreading joy like it was contagious.
Someone ordered more champagne, bottles appearing as if by magic.
Zoe ran in circles shouting, "I'm gonna throw flowers! I'm gonna throw SO MANY flowers!"
Sebastian had found his person. Xavier had found his family. They deserved this. Both of them. After everything they'd been through, every mistake and misstep and moments of doubt, they deserved happiness.
I was happy for them, genuinely and overwhelmingly happy.
And if I was being honest, I was slightly relieved.
Two weddings meant my grandmother would be occupied for months.
The questions about my future, my love life, my timeline, the pointed comments about my biological clock, all of it would be aimed elsewhere now.
I could breathe. I could hide in plain sight while they focused on my brothers.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw him watching me.
Femi stood at the edge of the celebration, champagne glass in hand, his eyes locked on mine across the crowd. A part of me, the foolish, childish part wanted him to approach and sweep me off my feet like he always did.
And the more sensible part, the part that had survived heartbreak once, knew the right thing to do was to stay away. My only prayer was that the sensible part would win this battle.