8. Isabelle
I woke up feeling at peace.
Sunlight streamed through the window, warming my face. Birds were singing somewhere outside—actual songbirds, not the pigeons that screamed at each other on my London windowsill. The air smelled like fresh earth and something floral I couldn't name, sweet and delicate.
This place had a way of making you forget. Every worry, every stress, every phone that hadn't rung—it all felt distant here, like problems that belonged to someone else entirely.
I stretched, letting the soft sheets slide against my skin. The sweater I'd borrowed had ridden up during the night, and for a moment I just lay there, watching dust motes drift through the golden light.
But I couldn't stay.
Naomi's flight was arriving tonight, and I needed to be at the hotel in time to meet her. Tomorrow the other models would arrive, and then it was final fittings, final adjustments, final everything before the opening.
My real life was waiting.
And then there was the Matteo thing.
I laughed out loud, the sound strange in the quiet room.
Me and Matteo. Could you even imagine?
My mind had been playing tricks on me last night. That moment in the hallway, the rain dripping from our hair, his fingers brushing my cheek—it was just the setting. The candles, the garden, the wine. And then the rain, appearing out of nowhere like something from a film.
Honestly, it was all very convenient. Too convenient. Like the universe had hired a paid actor to create the perfect romantic atmosphere.
But it was a new day now. The sun was shining. There was no wine clouding my judgment. Matteo and I could go back to being what we actually were: friends. Acquaintances, really. People who had met three times and shared a pleasant evening.
Nothing more.
I climbed out of bed and looked around for my clothes. They were folded neatly on a chair by the window—someone had collected them, washed and dried them while I slept. The linen trousers were soft now, the cream blouse crisp and fresh.
I changed quickly, folding Matteo's borrowed sweater and placing it on the bed. Then, I continued starting my day.
I checked my reflection in the mirror. My hair was a disaster, but there was nothing to be done about that without proper products. I finger-combed it into something resembling order and called it good enough.
Deep breath. Time to face the day.
I opened the door and walked straight into Matteo.
Or almost into him. He was standing right there, hand raised like he'd been about to knock.
"Oh—" I stepped back. "Hi."
Heat rushed up my cheeks. What the hell was happening to me?
"Buongiorno, Bella." He dropped his hand, smiling. He was wearing a simple blue shirt today, untucked, the sleeves rolled up. His hair was still damp from a shower. "I was just coming to let you know breakfast is ready."
"Right. Breakfast. Yes." I was aware that I was nodding too much. My voice sounded strange, too high. "Actually, I really need to leave. I have to get back to Milan. My friend is flying in tonight, and the boutique, and—"
I was rambling. Why was I rambling?
"Of course." His smile didn't waver. "My driver can take you. But it will be about thirty minutes before he arrives. You could eat while you wait."
"That's okay. I can just wait. In the room." I gestured vaguely behind me. "I'll just go back to the room."
I turned around.
The door had swung shut behind me.
I walked directly into it.
My forehead connected with solid wood. The impact wasn't hard, but it was loud, and humiliating, and I heard myself make a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a groan.
"Bella!" Matteo's hands were on my shoulders immediately, turning me around. "Are you okay? Let me see."
His face was close to mine, brow furrowed with concern. His fingers brushed my forehead, checking for damage.
"I'm fine." I stepped back quickly, putting distance between us. "I'm fine. Totally fine. Just—the door was—I didn't realize it had—"
I was babbling. My face was on fire. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.
Matteo was looking at me strangely, his head tilted slightly. Like he was trying to solve a puzzle. "Okay," he said slowly. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Completely sure. One hundred percent." I clasped my hands together to stop them from doing anything embarrassing. "So. Breakfast?"
His expression shifted to something like amusement. "Breakfast."
I followed him down the hallway, keeping a careful distance. My heart was beating too fast. Every time I looked at him, I remembered his shirt coming off. The tattoo spreading across his chest. The rain on his eyelashes.
This was ridiculous. I was a grown woman. A successful businesswoman who negotiated with suppliers and managed employees and dealt with demanding clients without blinking. I did not get flustered by attractive men.
Except, apparently, I did. When the attractive man in question had fed me dinner by candlelight and almost kissed me in a rainstorm, and made me feel more seen in twenty-four hours than I'd felt in months.
Breakfast was laid out on the terrace. The same terrace where we'd eaten last night, but transformed by daylight.
The valley spread out below us, rows of vines glowing green-gold in the morning sun.
A basket of pastries sat beside a pot of coffee.
Fresh fruit. Yogurt in a ceramic bowl. A small jar of honey that caught the light like liquid amber.
I sat down and focused very intently on pouring myself coffee.
Matteo sat across from me. I could feel him watching, but I didn't look up.
"The pastries are from the bakery in town," he said. "They make them fresh every morning. The ones with the custard are my favorite."
"Mm." I selected a pastry at random. Bit into it. It was delicious, but I barely tasted it. Silence stretched between us. Uncomfortable. Heavy with everything we weren't saying.
"Bella."
I looked up. His eyes were warm, patient, a little amused. "You seem... tense this morning."
"I'm not tense. I'm just—there's a lot to do. With the boutique. It's a very important week."
"Of course." He nodded seriously, but I could see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Very important. Many things to worry about."
"Exactly."
"Which is why you walked into a door."
I glared at him. He was fighting a smile. "I didn't see it," I said stiffly.
"It's a very large door."
"It's a normal-sized door."
"It's been there for two hundred years.” His eyes were dancing now. “Very sneaky, these old doors. Always jumping out at people when they're not looking."
I pressed my lips together. Trying not to smile. Failing. "I hate you," I said.
"No, you don't." He pushed the basket of pastries toward me. "Try the one with the chocolate. It will improve your mood."
I took the chocolate pastry. Bit into it. The filling was rich and dark, and despite everything, I felt my shoulders start to relax.
"See?" Matteo said. "Chocolate fixes everything."
"It doesn't fix the fact that I walked into a door in front of you."
"No. But it makes the memory more pleasant." He grinned. "For me, at least."
I threw a piece of pastry at him. He caught it easily and ate it, never breaking eye contact.
"Your aim is terrible," he observed.
"My aim is fine. I was being gentle."
"Ah. Of course. Very considerate of you."
We finished breakfast in easier silence. The awkwardness hadn't disappeared entirely, but it had softened into something more manageable. By the time the driver arrived, I could almost look at Matteo without my face catching fire.
Almost.
"Thank you," I said as we walked to the car, my heels crunching on the gravel. "For everything. You really made it an amazing experience. It was exactly what I needed."
"You're welcome anytime, Bella." He stopped beside the car door, hands in his pockets. "I mean that. Anytime you need to escape, the vineyard is here."
"I might take you up on that."
"I hope you do." Something in his voice made me look at him. His expression was open, unguarded. "I really hope you do."
We stood there for a moment. The sun warm on our faces. The sound of birds and distant machinery, the peaceful hum of the vineyard waking up.
I stepped forward and hugged him. It was awkward. My arms didn't quite know where to go. His hands settled on my back, light and careful, like he was holding something fragile. I pulled away too quickly, suddenly aware of how good he smelled, how solid he felt.
"Goodbye, Matteo."
"Arrivederci, Bella." His smile was soft. "Good luck with the opening. I'll see you there."
I climbed into the car, settling into the leather seat. The driver pulled away smoothly. Through the rear window, I watched Matteo standing in the driveway, growing smaller and smaller, until the vineyard disappeared around a bend and there was nothing but hills and the sky.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
The drive back to Milan gave me time to think. Too much time, maybe. The hills rolled past, beautiful and indifferent, and I sat in the back seat replaying every moment of the past twenty-four hours.
The way Matteo had looked at me in the rain, water streaming down his face.
The footsteps stopping outside my door, and that endless moment of waiting.
And the dream I had.
By the time we reached the city, I'd almost convinced myself it meant nothing. That it was just a moment, a distraction, a temporary escape from reality.
Almost.
My hotel room was exactly as I'd left it. The dress Femi had sent still hung in the closet. The flowers were beginning to wilt. I dropped onto the bed and just breathed for a moment. Let the silence settle around me.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it, heart jumping with pa—but it was Naomi.
Just landed. Customs is a nightmare. Be there in an hour.
I texted back: I'm at the hotel. Suite 412. Just come up when you get here.
Will do. Order wine. I need it.
I smiled and set the phone aside.
Still nothing from Femi.