12. Isabelle
Sebastian's townhouse smelled like fresh flowers and anxiety.
Aria had been rearranging the living room since I arrived—moving vases, adjusting pillows, repositioning the coffee table by inches that made no discernible difference. Sebastian watched from the doorway with the expression of a man who had learned not to interfere.
"The lilies are wrong," Aria announced. "They're too tall. They're throwing off the whole room."
"The room looks fine," Sebastian said carefully.
"The room looks unbalanced. The lilies need to go."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Somewhere else. Another room. Outside." She picked up the vase and thrust it toward him. "Just not here."
Sebastian took the lilies without argument and disappeared down the hallway. Aria turned to me, slightly wild-eyed.
"I swear, I'm not crazy. The lilies were wrong."
"The lilies were fine."
"You're supposed to be on my side."
"I'm on the side of truth." I smiled gently. "Which is that you're nervous about the wedding planner and taking it out on innocent flowers."
Aria opened her mouth to argue, then closed it. She sank onto the sofa. "I hate that you're right."
"I usually am."
The doorbell rang. Aria shot up like she'd been electrocuted.
"That's either the planner or the wine. Please let it be the wine. I need alcohol before I can deal with a professional asking me about centerpiece heights."
It was the wine.
Matteo stood on the doorstep with a dolly stacked with wooden crates, his hair slightly windswept, wearing a navy sweater that brought out the golden warmth of his skin. He smiled when he saw me and it made my stomach flip.
"Bella. I didn't know you'd be here."
"Surprise."
"A very good one." His eyes held mine for a moment longer than necessary. "Are you going to let me in, or should I conduct the tasting on the sidewalk?"
I stepped aside. He wheeled the crates past me, close enough that I caught his scent—cedar and something citrus, familiar now, making my pulse quicken.
Sebastian reappeared, lily-free, and helped Matteo set up in the dining room. Six bottles emerged from the crates, each one labeled with handwritten notes in elegant script. Matteo arranged them with care, explaining the selection as he worked.
"I brought a range. Two whites for the cocktail hour—one crisp, one with more body. Three reds for dinner, different profiles depending on your menu. And a dessert wine for the cake."
"You brought options," Aria said, relief visible on her face. "I love options."
"I remember." He glanced at me again, quick, almost shy. "You mentioned at the launch party that you liked having choices."
The doorbell rang again. Aria's face went pale, all the blood draining from it.
"That's her. That's the planner." She grabbed Sebastian's arm. "Come with me. I can't do this alone."
"You've met her three times already."
"And I've been terrified every single time. She has very strong opinions about table linens." Aria was already pulling him toward the door. "Isabelle, you'll be okay here? With the wine?"
"I think I can manage."
"Matteo, don't let her drink all the good stuff before we get back."
"I make no promises," I said.
They disappeared. The front door opened, voices murmured greetings, and then footsteps retreated toward Sebastian's study.
Silence settled over the dining room. Matteo and I stood on opposite sides of the table, six bottles between us.
"So," he said softly. "Shall we?"
He started with the whites. Poured a small measure into my glass with practiced precision, tilted his own toward the light to examine the color, catching the afternoon sun.
"This one is from the eastern slope. The grapes get more morning sun there, which gives it—" He paused, watching me with amusement. "You're not listening."
I frowned at him. "I'm listening."
"You're smiling."
"Can't I smile while listening?"
"You can." He set down his glass. "But that particular smile usually means you're thinking something you're not saying."
I took a sip of the wine. Crisp, clean, a hint of something floral underneath. Maybe honeysuckle.
"I was thinking that you look different here," I admitted. "In New York. Out of context."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. More... contained, maybe. At the vineyard, you seemed like part of the landscape itself. Here you look like you're visiting somewhere foreign."
He considered this, his expression thoughtful. "I am visiting. New York isn't home."
"Do you like it? The city?"
"Parts of it. The energy. The ambition. Everyone here seems to be building something." He refilled my glass with the second white. "But it's too fast. Too loud. Too..." He gestured vaguely. "Too much. I miss the quiet. The space to breathe."
"I used to think quiet was boring. Stifling, even."
"And now?"
I thought about the vineyard. The morning light through the guest room window. The way time had seemed to move differently there, slower and more deliberate.
"Now I'm not sure," I said quietly.
He smiled. That private smile I was starting to know too well, the one that made my chest feel tight.
We moved through the whites and into the reds. He explained each one with obvious passion—the soil composition, the climate, the year, the particular year, the magic that made this grape different from that one. I listened, asked questions, watched his hands as he poured.
Good hands. Careful hands. The hands of someone who paid attention to details that mattered.
"This one," he said, sliding a glass toward me with reverence, "is my favorite. From the oldest vines on the property. My great-grandfather planted them in 1923."
I lifted the glass. The wine was deep ruby, almost purple at the edges. It smelled like dark fruit and smoke and something earthier underneath.
"Taste it," Matteo said, his voice dropping lower. "Tell me what you think."
I took a sip. Let it sit on my tongue, feeling the weight of it, the complexity.
"It's..." I searched for words. "It tastes like a story. Like something that took a long time to become what it is."
His expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "That's exactly what it is, Bella."
We stood there, the wine between us, the afternoon light slanting through the windows. I was suddenly aware of how close we were. How easy it would be to step forward, to close the distance.
"Isabelle." His voice was quieter now, careful. "Can I ask you something?"
"Depends on the question."
"The man from the boutique opening. Femi." He said the name carefully, like he was handling something fragile. "Are you and he...?"
"I don't know what we are." The honesty surprised me, escaping before I could stop it. "We're trying to figure it out."
"And is it working? The figuring out?"
I didn't answer. I didn't know how to, as I couldn't find words that were true.
Matteo nodded slowly, like my silence told him everything that he needed to know.
"I should check the other bottles," he said. But he didn't move.
Neither did I.
The air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken and dangerous. I could hear my own breathing, could feel my pulse thrumming in my throat, between my ribs.
"You have wine," Matteo said softly, his accent thickening. "On your lip."
His thumb came up, brushed the corner of my mouth. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent heat flooding through me like wildfire.
His hand stayed. Cupped my jaw. Tilted my face toward his with infinite gentleness.
"Bella." His voice was rough, strained. "I should not..."
"No," I whispered, my heart hammering. "You probably shouldn't."
But neither of us moved away.
His eyes dropped to my mouth. I watched him watch me, feeling like I was standing on the edge of something vast and irreversible. The space between us narrowed—an inch, then less.
I could feel his breath on my lips, warm and wine-sweet.
"Issy!"
I jerked backward.
Femi stood in the doorway of the dining room. He was smiling, but his eyes moved between me and Matteo, cataloging the distance between us, the flush on my cheeks, the way Matteo's hand was still hovering in the air where my face had been.
"There you are." Femi crossed the room and pulled me into a hug. His arms wrapped around me firmly, possessively. He pressed a kiss to my temple. "I've been looking for you."
"How did you know I was here?"
"Xavier mentioned it." He released me but kept one arm around my waist, his hand splayed against my hip. Turned to Matteo with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Matteo, right? The wine chap. Good to see you again."
"Femi." Matteo's voice was even. Polite. "Good to see you as well."
"The wedding wine, I assume?" Femi gestured at the bottles on the table. "Aria's been going on about it nonstop. Apparently you made quite an impression at that launch party."
"I do my best."
"Successfully, it seems." Femi's fingers tightened on my waist. Subtle but deliberate. "How's the tasting going, darling? Found anything you like?"
The endearment landed wrong. Too deliberate. Too performative.
"We were just finishing up," I said, my voice tight.
"Perfect timing then." Femi smiled, all charm. "I thought I'd steal you away. There's a new restaurant I’m dying to show you. Very exclusive. I had to call in a favor just to secure a reservation."
"I should probably wait for Sebastian and Aria—"
"They'll be ages with the planner. Trust me, I've sat through those meetings.” His hand pressed against the small of my back, insistent. "We'll be back before they even notice you're gone."
I looked at Matteo. He was watching us with that careful, neutral expression. Whatever had been building between us moments ago had vanished, replaced by something closed off.
"Go," he said. "I'll finish up here. We can discuss the final selection another time."
"Matteo—"
"It's fine, Bella." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Enjoy your dinner."
Femi was already steering me toward the door, his hand firm against my spine. I let myself be moved, too off-balance to resist.