7. Isabelle #2
"I don't know what I expected." I squeezed another handful, watching the purple liquid pool beneath. "This is messier than I thought."
"All the best things are messy, Bella." He worked beside me, his forearms already stained dark. "Fashion isn't messy?"
"Fashion is extremely messy. Just not usually with actual fruit."
He laughed again, the sound warm and genuine, and I found myself laughing, too. There was something freeing about this—the physical work, the simple goal, the complete absence of emails and phone calls and crises to solve. Just grapes and juice and Matteo's easy company.
We transferred the crushed grapes to a smaller vat, and Matteo showed me how to punch down the cap—the layer of skins that floated to the surface.
"You have to do this several times a day during fermentation," he said. "It keeps the flavors balanced. Too much cap, and the wine gets bitter. Too little contact, and it's thin."
"Like relationships," I said without thinking.
He looked at me and smiled. "Yes. Exactly like that. Too much pressure, you suffocate it. Not enough attention, it falls apart."
We worked in comfortable silence for a while. Then Matteo reached for a tool on a high shelf, and his shirt rode up, revealing a strip of tan stomach.
And then the accident happened.
His elbow caught the edge of a container, and suddenly red juice was splashing across his chest, soaking through the white linen.
"Ah, merda." He looked down at himself, then up at me, and laughed. "This is why I usually wear darker colors."
He started unbuttoning his shirt.
The world slowed down.
The first button. A triangle of golden skin at his throat.
The second. The line of his collarbone, strong and defined.
The third. The edge of the tattoo on his chest—I could see now it continued from his arm, spreading across his left pectoral in intricate patterns. Dark ink against tan skin. Vines, I realized. Grape vines, intertwined with something else I couldn't quite make out.
The fourth button. His chest now, defined but not excessive. The body of someone who worked with his hands, who lifted barrels and walked hillsides.
He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, and I saw the full tattoo for the first time.
The vines started at his wrist and climbed up his forearm, wrapping around his bicep, spreading across his chest. Nestled among the leaves were small details—a bird, a sun, what looked like initials near his heart.
My eyes traveled lower before I could stop them. His stomach was flat, ridged with muscle earned through work rather than a gym. A trail of dark hair disappeared beneath his waistband, and—
I realized I was staring.
Heat crept up my neck, flooded my cheeks. I looked away quickly, mortified.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." His voice was warm, amused. "You can look all you want. Beauty is meant to be appreciated, no?"
I glanced back at him despite myself. He was grinning, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
"I'm joking," he said. "Mostly." He draped the ruined shirt over a chair. "Let me get a clean one. I'll be right back."
He disappeared through a side door, and I stood there, heart pounding, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
When he returned, he was wearing a soft gray t-shirt that somehow looked just as good as the linen had. Maybe better, because it fit him differently, more casual as the fabric was soft enough to hint at what lay beneath.
"Come," he said. "We've done enough work. Time to enjoy the results."
Dinner was served on the terrace as the sun sank toward the hills, painting everything gold and amber.
A woman I assumed to be the housekeeper had prepared a simple meal.
Fresh bread, still warm from the oven, the crust crackling when I tore it.
Tomatoes so red and ripped they looked painted, bursting with sweetness.
Cheese that crumbled on my tongue, sharp and creamy at once.
And wine, of course. Several bottles, each one better than the last.
"So," Matteo said, refilling my glass. "I think it's safe to say you've found your true calling in fashion. Winemaking is perhaps not your gift."
I laughed, the sound loosened by wine and good food and his easy company. "That bad?"
"You sorted the grapes very, very slowly. And you looked personally offended by the crushing."
"It was slimy."
"It was natural." He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But yes. Perhaps stick to fabric, leave the grapes to me."
"Gladly." I took a sip, letting the wine coat my tongue. "This is incredible, by the way. Truly."
"Grazie." He leaned back in his chair, watching me with open curiosity. "So tell me. How did you get into fashion? You said rebellion once in New York. That sounds like there’s a story."
I traced the rim of my glass, considering how much to share. "My family was in the hotel business. Still is, I suppose. My brothers run it now."
"And you weren't interested?"
"I was very interested. That was the problem." I smiled, but it felt tight, old anger stirring. "The business was for men. Women in my family were expected to sit and look pretty. Wait for life to be handed to us instead of taking it."
"That doesn't sound like you at all."
"It wasn't. So I rebelled. Chose something as far from hotels as I could imagine.
Something that was completely mine. Something my father couldn't control or dismiss.
" I shrugged, but the gesture felt heavy.
"He dismissed it anyway, of course. Called it my little boutique like it was a hobby. A phase I'd grow out of."
"And did you?"