13. Isabelle #2
But Aria was asking, and the request was reasonable, and saying no would require an explanation I wasn't prepared to give.
"Fine," I said. "Send me the address."
The tasting room was small and elegant—exposed brick, wooden shelves lined with bottles, a long counter where samples were arranged with careful precision. Late morning light streamed through the windows, catching dust motes in the air, making everything look soft and golden.
Matteo looked up when I walked in. He was behind the counter, arranging glasses, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing those forearms I'd been trying not to think about.
"Bella." His face lit up, surprise and pleasure flooding his features. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Aria sent me. Something about lighter options for guests who can't have the reds."
"Ah, yes. She mentioned that might be needed." He gestured to a stool at the counter. "Sit, please. I'll show you what I have."
I sat, trying to ignore how my pulse had quickened the moment I saw him. He moved along the shelves with graceful efficiency, selecting bottles with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything was.
"How have you been?" he asked, his back to me.
"Busy. Wedding things, you know."
"Of course." He returned with three bottles, set them on the counter between us. "These are what I'd recommend. A Pinot Grigio, a Vermentino, and a rosé. All light, all easy to drink, all good for people who find reds too heavy."
He uncorked the first bottle and poured a small measure into a glass, then slid it toward me.
"The Pinot Grigio. Crisp, clean, hints of citrus. Very refreshing."
I tasted it, letting the wine coat my tongue before swallowing. "Good. Maybe too light, though? It might get lost next to the reds we selected."
"Fair point." He poured the second with practiced ease. "The Vermentino has more body. Floral notes, a bit of minerality. It can hold its own."
I tried it. Better. More complexity, more presence. "I like this one."
"I thought you might." He smiled, that warm private smile that made my chest feel tight. "The rosé is just for fun. In case you want a third option."
He poured. The wine was pale pink, almost salmon-colored. I raised the glass, but my hand wasn't steady, and a few drops splashed over the rim, landing on my fingers.
"Oh—"
"Here, let me." Matteo was already reaching for a cloth napkin. He took my hand in his gently, dabbing at the wine on my skin with careful attention.
His touch was warm. Gentle. He cleaned each finger individually, his head bent over my hand, his attention focused entirely on the task like it was the most important thing in the world.
I watched him the entire time. The way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the way his thumb brushed my palm as he worked, the dark lashes against his cheek.
"There," he said softly. "All clean."
But he didn't let go of my hand.
He looked up. Our eyes met and held.
The tasting room was very quiet. I could hear my own breathing, could feel my pulse thudding in my wrist where his fingers rested.
"Bella." His voice was rough, strained. "I've been thinking about you. Constantly."
"You shouldn't."
"I know." He didn't look away, and still hasn’t released my hand. "I can't help it."
"Matteo—"
"Tell me to stop." His thumb traced a slow circle on my palm, sending electricity up my arm. "Tell me you don't think about me too, and I'll stop. I'll never mention it again."
I should have said it. Should have pulled my hand away, stood up, walked out.
I didn't.
"I think about you," I whispered, the admission feeling like falling. "I shouldn't, but I do."
Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or surrender.
He stood slowly and came around the counter with purpose. I turned on my stool to face him, my heart hammering.
We were close now. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, count his eyelashes, and feel the heat radiating from his body.
His hand came up, cupped my face. His palm was warm, calloused slightly from work, gentle against my cheek.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he said quietly. "If you don't want me to, say so."
I didn't say anything.
He leaned in, and I met him halfway.
The first brush of his lips was soft, tentative, a question asked with his mouth.
I answered by leaning into him, by parting my lips, by reaching up to grip the front of his shirt.
The kiss deepened. His other hand found my waist, pulled me closer with gentle insistence. I slid off the stool and into him, pressing against his chest, feeling his heart hammering to match mine.
He kissed like he did everything else—with patience, with attention, with a focus that made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. His mouth moved against mine slowly, thoroughly, learning me… Memorizing me.
My heart was pounding. Not the frantic, desperate rhythm I remembered from Femi's kisses, but something steadier. Deeper. A warmth spreading through my chestlike honey, filling spaces I hadn't known were empty.
His hand slid into my hair, fingers tangling in the strands. I made a small sound against his mouth and he pulled me closer still, his arm tightening around my waist like he never wanted to let go.
This. This was what a kiss should feel like. Not just want… Not just heat, but home.
And that terrified me more than anything.
I pulled back abruptly, breaking the kiss, and breaking the spell.
Matteo's eyes fluttered open slowly, dazed. He looked stunned, his lips slightly swollen, his breathing uneven, and his pupils blown wide.
"Bella—"
"I have to go." The words came out strangled, panicked.
I was already stepping back, putting necessary distance between us, grabbing my bag from the counter with shaking hands.
"Isabelle, wait—"
"I'm sorry. I can't—I have to go."
I pushed through the door and out onto the sidewalk. The morning air hit my face, sharp, cold, and sobering.
"Bella!"
His voice followed me, but I didn't turn around. I kept walking, my heels clicking against the pavement, my heart hammering in my chest like it was trying to escape.
I walked faster, practically running now. Reached the corner where my car was waiting. Yanked the door open. I climbed into the back seat and slammed the door.
“Back to my apartment, please,” I said to my driver.
He nodded and pulled away from the curb. Through the rear window, I could see Matteo standing on the sidewalk, watching me go with an expression that made my chest ache.
I turned around. Pressed my hands to my face, feeling tears threatening.
What had I done?
What the hell had I just done?