6. Isabelle
"Che sorpresa," Matteo said softly, his Italian accent rolling smooth as honey. "What are you doing in Florence?"
For a moment, I could only stare. Of all the people I could have run into on a random street corner in an unfamiliar city, it had to be him.
"I'm looking for a vendor," I managed. "A mannequin supplier. But the address I have is wrong. They moved, apparently, and I have no signal, and I'm completely lost."
The words tumbled out in a rush, betraying exactly how frazzled I was. So much for looking like I had everything under control.
Matteo's expression shifted from surprise to concern. "Mannequins?"
I nodded, feeling the tightness in my chest intensify. “Yes. I’m opening a boutique in Milan in five days. The order was never finalized because of some missing paperwork. Now I have seventy-two hours to find replacements or I'm displaying clothes on thin air."
He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Dio mo. That must have been very stressful for you."
It was such a simple thing to say. No unsolicited advice. No solutions I hadn’t already thought of. Just acknowledgment. My throat tightened unexpectedly, tears threatening at the edges of my vision.
"Have you eaten?" he asked.
I blinked at the shift in topic. "What?"
"Food. Today. Have you had any?" His dark eyes searched my face with genuine concern.
I tried to remember. Coffee this morning. Nothing since. "No," I admitted. "I haven't."
He nodded as if this confirmed something he'd suspected. "Come. I know a place nearby. You eat first, then we figure out the vendor."
"Matteo, I don't have time to—"
"You have time to eat." He said it firmly, but not unkindly. "You can't solve problems on an empty stomach. Trust me."
I wanted to argue. I should have argued. But I was tired and hungry and lost, and he was looking at me with such steady calm that I found myself nodding.
"Okay. Fine. But quick."
"Quick," he agreed. "This way."
The restaurant was tucked into a side street I never would have found on my own.
Small, maybe ten tables, with red checkered cloths and the intoxicating smell of garlic and tomatoes thick in the air.
An older woman behind the counter greeted Matteo like a long-lost son, kissing both his cheeks and exclaiming in rapid Italian.
"My aunt," he explained as she led us to a corner table. "She owns this place. Best pasta in Florence. Don't tell anyone."
"Your aunt lives in Florence?"
"My mother's sister. She moved here thirty years ago for a man. The man left, but she stayed for the food." He smiled. "Smart woman."
The aunt—Aurora, he called her—brought bread and olive oil without being asked. Then a carafe of red wine. Then a plate of something fried and golden that smelled incredible.
"Eat," Matteo said, pushing the plate toward me. "Talk later."
I ate. The fried things were some kind of cheese, crispy on the outside and molten and rich within. The bread was warm. The olive oil was grassy and bright, nothing like the stuff I bought in London supermarkets.
Aurora reappeared with two bowls of pasta—thick ribbons coated in a sauce that was somehow both simple and complex. Tomatoes, basil, a hint of cream.
I took a bite and closed my eyes, unable to suppress a small sound of pleasure.
"Good?" Matteo asked, amusement coloring his voice.
"Don't talk to me. I'm having a moment."
He laughed softly and let me eat in peace.
By the time I'd cleared half the bowl, the tension in my shoulders had started to ease. I hadn't realized how tightly I'd been wound up until I began to unravel.
"So," Matteo said, refilling my wine glass. "Tell me. What happened?"
So I told him. The missing paperwork. The vendor who couldn't deliver. The hours of phone calls that led nowhere. The train to Florence and the wrong address and the locked warehouse that nearly broke me.
And then, before I could stop myself, I was telling him about the phone call with Femi. How I'd wanted comfort and gotten a strategy session instead. How I'd hung up feeling worse than before. How he still hadn't called back.
I checked my phone again. Nothing.
"He hasn't even tried to reach out," I said, hating how small my voice sounded. "To ask how it's going. If I found a solution. Anything."
Matteo was quiet for a moment. "That must be frustrating."
"It is." I set down my fork. "I don't need someone to solve my problems. I can solve my own problems. I just needed someone to listen, to say 'that sounds hard, I'm sorry.' Is that too much to ask?"
"No," he said simply. "It's not."
I looked at him. He was watching me with that quiet attention I remembered from New York. No judgment. No agenda. Just presence. "Thank you," I said. "For listening. And for the food. This is exactly what I needed."
"Of course." He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Now. What do you want to do? How do you plan to find this vendor?"
I sighed. "I was trying to find them when I ran into you. The address Meg gave me was outdated. I have no idea where they actually are now."
Matteo stood, extracting his wallet to leave cash on the table. "Then let's go find them."
"What? No. You've already done enough. Don't you have things to do? You came to Florence for a reason."
"I'm here for a meeting with a distribution company. They want to carry my wines in Northern Italy." He checked his watch. "But that's not until tomorrow. Today, I'm free."
"Matteo—"
"Bella." He said gently. "You're lost in a city you don't know, looking for a business that moved, with five days until your opening. Let me help. Per favore."
There was something in the way he said it. Not pushy or insistent. Not trying to prove anything. Just genuine.
"Okay," I said softly. "Thank you."
He spoke to his aunt in rapid Italian—something about the vendor, the mannequin business, did she know anyone? She made a phone call. Then another. Then she wrote something on a napkin and handed it to Matteo with a firm nod and what sounded like detailed directions.
"She knows someone who knows someone," he translated, pocketing the napkin. "New address. Twenty minutes from here."
"Your aunt is a miracle worker."
"She knows everyone in Florence. It's her superpower." He grinned. "That, and her lasagna."
We took a taxi across the city. The new address led to a warehouse district that looked remarkably similar to the first one—gray buildings, loading docks, the smell of paint and sawdust. But this time, the lights were on.
Inside, a harried-looking man in a dusty apron looked up from a workbench covered in mannequin parts.
"Posso aiutarvi?"
Matteo stepped forward and began explaining in Italian. I caught fragments—boutique, Milan, urgent, five days. The man's expression shifted from skepticism to interest to sympathy as Matteo continued, his voice persuasive without being aggressive.
They went back and forth for several minutes. The man kept shaking his head. Matteo kept talking, gesturing, his hands moving in that animated way I remembered. At one point, he pulled out his phone and showed the man something—photos, maybe, of my boutique? Of my designs?
Finally, the man sighed and nodded.
Matteo turned to me, smiling. "He can do it. Rush order. Day after tomorrow."
"Day after tomorrow? That's one day before the opening." That's cutting it incredibly close.
"It's the best he can do. But he'll deliver directly to Milan. And—" he held up a hand, forestalling my protest "—he's giving you a discount. For the inconvenience of the original company."
I stared at him. "How did you manage that?"
"I told him who you are. Showed him your last collection online." He shrugged, but looked pleased with himself. "He has a daughter who wants to be a designer. He was impressed."
"Matteo..."
"Don't thank me yet. You still have to pay him." He nodded toward the counter where the man was pulling out paperwork. "Half now, half on delivery. He only takes cash or bank transfer."
An hour later, we emerged into the late afternoon sun. The paperwork was signed, the deposit transferred, the delivery confirmed. The mannequins would arrive in Milan with one day to spare.
I stopped on the sidewalk and turned to face him.
"I don't know how to thank you. Seriously. You saved my entire opening."
"You would have figured it out," he said with easy confidence.
"Maybe. But not this fast. And not without losing my mind completely." I hesitated, then made a decision. "I want to do something. To show my gratitude. Would you come to the opening? You and your sister, if she's interested. As my guests."
His face lit up. "Sofia would love that. She's been talking about your work since I told her I met you."
"Is she in Milan?"
"No, she's in Rome. Finishing her master’s in art history." He pulled out his phone. "But I can fly her out. She'd never forgive me if I didn't."
"Then, it's settled. I'll have Meg send you the details."
We stood there for a moment, suspended in that strange pocket of time before goodbye. The Florentine sun was warm on my face, gilding everything gold.
"The offer still stands, by the way," Matteo said. "To visit the vineyard. If you find yourself with free time after the opening."
"I might take you up on that."
"I hope you do." He paused, and something shifted in his expression, more serious. "The man I saw you with. In New York. Is that your boyfriend?"
The question caught me off guard. "Something like that. We're trying to figure things out."
"Ah." He nodded slowly. "Trying to figure things out."
"It's complicated."
"Most things worth having are." He smiled, but there was something bittersweet in it now. Almost wistful. "I hope you get everything you need, Bella. Whatever that looks like. You deserve to be happy."
He leaned in and kissed my cheek. The scratch of his stubble, the smell of wine and sunlight.
Then he stepped back, breaking the spell.
"I should let you get back to Milan. You have a boutique to open."
He started to turn away.
"Matteo, wait."
He stopped, hope flickering across his features before he schooled them neutral.
"I should get your number. In case I decide to take you up on that vineyard offer."
Something flickered in his eyes. He pulled out his phone, and we exchanged numbers. His contact appeared on my screen: Matteo Rossi.
"Safe travels, Bella." His smile was warm, genuine, achingly kind. "I'll see you at the opening."
I watched him walk away until he disappeared around a corner. Then I called a taxi and headed back to the train station, my mind a tangle of thoughts I didn’t want to examine too closely.
The boutique was quiet when I returned. Late evening light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in the air. Meg was still there, surrounded by notebooks and her laptop.
"Well?" she asked. "Did you find them?"
"I found them." I dropped into a chair beside her, bone-tired but relieved. "Mannequins arrive the day after tomorrow. Rush order."
Her shoulders sagged with relief. "How did you manage that?"
"I had help." I didn't elaborate. I didn't want to explain Matteo, what he'd done, how he'd made me feel. "What's the status here?"
We spent the next two hours reviewing final details, ticking items off lists. The garment delivery was confirmed. The lighting was installed. The caterer for the opening night event was locked in. Naomi would fly in two days before launch, while the other models would arrive the day before.
By the time we finished, it was nearly ten. Meg headed back to her hotel, and I returned to mine, the weight of the day settling onto my shoulders like a heavy coat.
My room was silent except for the distant hum of traffic. The city glittered beyond the windows, a thousand lives I'd never know.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it.
Still nothing from Femi.
I scrolled through our message history. His last message was from this morning, before everything fell apart: a photo of flowers he'd seen that reminded him of me.
That was hours ago. An entire day of crisis, and he hadn't reached out once.
I set the phone on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling, my mind spinning. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was giving me space. Maybe he assumed I'd call him when I was ready.
But I was furious. I'd had one of the most stressful days of my professional life, and he'd given me a lecture instead of support. Then, he disappeared. Not a single text to ask if I was okay. Not one call to check if I'd found a solution.
I wasn't going to reach out. I wasn't going to explain why I was upset or ask him to apologize. If he couldn't figure out what he'd done wrong, then maybe he hadn't changed as much as I hoped.
The next morning, I reached for my phone immediately, still half-asleep but desperate to check.
No missed calls. No messages from Femi.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the screen in disbelief. It had been almost twenty-four hours since our phone call. Twenty-four hours since I'd hung up on him, upset and overwhelmed. And nothing.
I knew he was busy. I knew he had work, responsibilities, a life that didn't revolve around me. But no one was that busy. Not when someone they supposedly cared about was struggling.
I put the phone down and got out of bed. Showered. Dressed. Made coffee in the suite's tiny kitchen and stood by the window watching the rain streak down the glass.
My phone buzzed.
I grabbed it, expecting—hoping—
But it wasn't Femi.
Buongiorno, Bella. I hope you're feeling better today and there are no more fires to put out. Let me know if you need anything. —M
Matteo.
I read the message twice. Then a third time.
He was checking on me. Making sure I was okay. No agenda, no lecture, no expectation. Just kindness.
I thought about Femi's silence. About the vineyard in Tuscany, an hour away. About the way Matteo had listened to me yesterday, really listened, and then helped me solve my problem without making me feel small.
I made a decision.
My fingers moved across the screen before I could second-guess myself.
Actually, I think I'm going to take you up on that offer. Can I visit today?