7. Isabelle #3
"No. I doubled down and worked harder. Made it impossible to ignore." I met his eyes. "I built something he couldn't diminish."
Matteo was quiet for a moment. "A fighting spirit," he said finally. "I love that."
"You have to fight for the things you want. No one hands them to you."
"No." He raised his glass. "Salute. To dreams we don't give up on, no matter who tells us to."
Our glasses clinked. The wine was warm in my throat, loosening something in my chest, some knot I’d been carrying for so long I’d forgotten it was there.
The sky had deepened to purple, stars beginning to emerge through the thick clouds. The air was soft and smelled like jasmine. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this relaxed.
"I should probably go," I said, even though I didn't want to. "It's getting late."
As if in answer, the sky opened up.
Rain came suddenly, violently—fat drops that splattered against the stone terrace, soaking everything in seconds.
"Inside!" Matteo grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door. "Quickly!"
We ran, laughing, stumbling over chairs. By the time we made it through the door, we were both completely drenched. Water dripped from my hair, my clothes plastered to my skin. Matteo's t-shirt clung to his chest.
We stood in the hallway, catching our breath, grinning at each other like children who'd gotten away with something.
And then the grinning faded.
He was looking at me differently now. His eyes moved over my face, my wet hair, my flushed cheeks, then to my lips. The space between us felt charged, electric.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers were warm against my skin, gentle yet deliberate.
We were so close. I could see the individual droplets of water on his eyelashes. Could smell the rain on him, mixed with wine and something warmer underneath–skin and heat and want.
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.
His phone rang.
The sound shattered the moment like glass. He blinked, stepped back, and pulled the phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, something unreadable crossing his face.
"I'll answer later." He slipped it back into his pocket. "Let me show you where you'll be sleeping."
I followed Matteo down a hallway lined with old photographs. Family portraits, vineyard scenes, generations of Rossis looking down at us from the walls.
"Here." He opened a door to reveal a bedroom that looked like something from a magazine. White linens, exposed beams, a window that would overlook the valley in daylight.
Matteo gestured to a door. "The bathroom is through there. I'll find you something dry to wear."
He disappeared and returned a moment later with a stack of clothes—soft cotton pants, an oversized sweater that smelled faintly of him.
"Thank you," I said, taking them from him. "For everything today. The tour, the winemaking lesson, the dinner. All of it."
"It was my pleasure, Bella. Truly." He smiled, but there was something careful in it now. Restrained. "Sleep well. I'll see you in the morning."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
I stood in the middle of the room, still dripping, still feeling the ghost of his fingers on my cheek, the heat of his body when we'd been pressed together in the rain.
The bathroom was warm, the water hot. I stood under the spray and tried to make sense of the day, of everything I was feeling.
My hand drifted to my lips. I touched them, remembering how close he'd been. How easy it would have been to lean forward, to close the distance.
What was that?
I barely knew Matteo. We'd met three times, spent maybe fifteen hours together total.
He was kind and charming and beautiful, but that didn't mean anything.
I was with Femi. Trying to be with Femi.
Whatever this was, it was just... proximity.
Loneliness. The flattery of being looked at by someone who seemed to actually see me.
I liked Femi. I did. Even if he hadn't called. Even if he didn't understand what I needed. We had history. We had a future we were trying to build.
This thing with Matteo was nothing. A distraction. A moment that wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been vulnerable and far from home.
I turned off the water and dried myself with a towel. Put on the clothes Matteo had given me. The sweater swallowed me whole, the sleeves falling past my fingertips.
I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. The sheets smelled like lavender and the sun, and something else I couldn’t identify.
The house was quiet.
Then—footsteps in the hallway.
My heart jumped. I lay perfectly still, listening.
The footsteps stopped outside my door that seemed to stretch for hours.
Silence. Long, weighted silence.
I heard him exhale. A slow breath, like he was steadying himself. Deciding something.
Then the footsteps continued, fading down the hall.
A door opened and closed in the distance.
I stared at the ceiling, wide awake, my pulse thrumming in my throat.
When I finally slept, I dreamed of vineyards and rain and warm hands brushing hair from my face.
I dreamed of Matteo.