15. Isabelle
Naomi's face filled my phone screen, her braids piled on top of her head, a makeup brush in one hand.
"Hold on, they're doing something ridiculous to my eyebrows." She turned away, speaking rapid instructions to someone off-camera. "No, higher. Higher. That's too high. There. Perfect."
She turned back to me, rolling her eyes.
"London shoots are chaotic. The photographer keeps changing his mind about the lighting, and the stylist brought the wrong shoes, and I've been in this chair for three hours."
"Sounds glamorous."
"Glamour is a lie I tell myself to justify waking up at 4 AM." She squinted at the screen, studying me. "Where are you? That doesn't look like Milan."
"Tuscany."
"Tuscany." Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "As in, Italian countryside Tuscany? As in, a certain vineyard owner’s Tuscany?"
"Maybe."
"Isabelle."
"Fine. Yes. I'm at Matteo's vineyard."
She set down the makeup brush with deliberate care. Gave me her full, undivided attention.
"And how exactly did that happen?"
"He had business meetings in Milan. We had dinner like we planned. And then... he invited me here for the weekend."
"And you said yes."
"I said yes."
Naomi was quiet for a moment, her expression shifting through several emotions before settling on satisfaction. Then a slow smile spread across her face.
"Okay, girl. I see you. Living your best life."
"It's not—We're just—"
"You're at his vineyard. In Tuscany. For the weekend." She held up a hand, stopping me. "Don't explain. Just... don't forget to give me the deets when you get back."
"There might not be details."
"There will absolutely be details. I can see it on your face—you look different." She glanced at something off-screen. "I have to go. They're ready for me. But Isa?"
"Yeah?"
"Have fun. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy."
The call ended. I set my phone on the nightstand and looked around the guest room—the same one I'd stayed in before, with its white linens and exposed beams and windows overlooking the valley that stretched endlessly green.
Except this time, everything felt different.
This time, I wasn't running from anything. I was running toward something.
Toward someone.
Matteo knocked on the door frame, his knuckles soft against wood. He was wearing a white linen shirt, untucked and casual, and dark trousers. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends.
"Ready?"
"Where are we going?"
"Dinner. A friend of mine has a restaurant nearby. He's preparing something special for us."
"Something special?"
"Marco likes to experiment with his menu. He asked what you enjoy eating, and I told him to surprise us." He smiled, that warm private smile. "Trust me. You'll love it."
The restaurant was a twenty-minute drive through winding roads that climbed through hills, tucked into a hillside village so small it barely qualified as a village at all.
Stone buildings, narrow streets, flowers spilling from window boxes.
The kind of place that looked like it hadn't changed in centuries.
Marco's restaurant had no sign. Just a wooden door and a small courtyard with a single table set beneath a canopy of grapevines.
"Matteo!" A stocky man with a generous mustache emerged from the kitchen, pulling Matteo into a bear hug. "It's been too long. And this must be the woman you won’t stop talking about."
"Marco." Matteo's cheeks flushed slightly. "This is Isabelle."
"Isabelle." Marco took my hand and kissed it with theatrical flourish. "Benvenuta, welcome. Tonight, I cook only for you. No menu. Just trust."
He disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving us alone in the courtyard. Matteo pulled out my chair. The evening light was golden, warm, turning everything soft at the edges.
"He's... enthusiastic," I said, settling into my seat.
"He's the best chef I know. We grew up together. He used to sneak into my family's vineyard and steal grapes."
"And now he has his own restaurant."
"Now he has three. But this one is his favorite. He only opens it for special occasions."
"Is this a special occasion?"
Matteo's eyes met mine. "I think so. Yes."
The food arrived in waves. Small plates, each one a work of art. A tomato so ripe it tasted like summer itself. Handmade pasta with a sauce that had been simmering for hours. Fish that melted on my tongue. Each course paired with wine from Matteo's vineyard, each one telling a story.
We talked between bites. Easy conversation at first—the boutique's progress, the upcoming wedding in Hawaii, his distribution meetings in Milan. But as the evening deepened and the wine flowed, so did the words, turning more honest and vulnerable.
"Can I ask you something?" I set down my fork. "About the vineyard. How did you rebuild it? When you took over?"
His expression shifted, something more serious settling over his features like a shadow.
"It was struggling when I took over. My father had let things slip. He didn't believe in modernizing, didn't believe in expanding. He thought the old ways were enough, that tradition was more important than survival."
Matteo turned his wine glass slowly with his fingers. "And he didn't believe in me. Thought I was too young, too ambitious. He wanted me to sell."
"But you didn't."
"No. I couldn't." He looked up at me, his eyes intense. "This place is my family. Four generations of work and love and sacrifice. My great-grandfather built it from nothing with his bare hands. I wasn't going to be the one who let it die just because things got difficult."
"What happened to your father?"
"He passed. Three years ago. Heart attack." Matteo's voice was steady, but I could hear the weight underneath. "We never reconciled. He died still thinking I would fail, that the vineyard would crumble under my watch."
"Matteo..."
"My mother wanted me to sell too, after he was gone. She said the debt was too much, the work was too hard, I was throwing my life away." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I told her no. I could do it—I would do it. I had to try."
"And you did. You succeeded."
"And I did." He met my gaze. "But sometimes I wonder what he would think now. If he could see what I've built, what I've saved. If he would finally believe in me, be proud of me."
Matteo’s words hit somewhere deep in my chest. Somewhere I kept locked away most of the time.
"I understand," I said quietly. "More than you know."
"Your father?"
I nodded, emotion rising in my throat. "He never took me seriously. I was just the pretty one. The decoration." I traced the rim of my glass. "When I told him I wanted to start my own business, he laughed. Called it a 'little boutique.' Said I should focus on finding a good husband instead."
"He was wrong."
"I know. But knowing doesn't make it stop hurting.
" I looked at him across the candlelight.
"He died before I could prove him wrong.
Before I could show him what I built. Sometimes I think that's worse than if he'd lived and kept dismissing me.
At least then I'd have a chance to change his mind, to make him see me. "
Matteo reached across the table and took my hand in both of his, warm and grounding.
"He would be proud, Bella," he said. "If he could see you now, with everything you've accomplished, I’m sure he would be. Any father would be proud of a daughter like you."
"You don't know that."
"I do." His thumb brushed my knuckles. "Because I see you, Bella. I see what you've built with your own hands and vision. The talent, the drive, the way you refuse to be small for anyone." His voice dropped. "You're extraordinary. And anyone who couldn't see that was blind."
My throat tightened. I blinked against the sting in my eyes.
"We're quite a pair," I managed, my voice rough. "Two people still trying to prove themselves to ghosts."
"Maybe." He lifted my hand, pressed a kiss to my fingers. "Or maybe we can be witnesses for each other instead. See what they couldn't. Believe what they wouldn't."
I looked at him across the candlelit table, this man who understood in a way no one else ever had. Who had fought his own battles against doubt and dismissal. Who had rebuilt something beautiful from the ruins of someone else's failure to believe.
Could he fit into my life?
The thought rose unbidden. My world was my fashion boutiques in London and Milan, my family in New York, the fashion weeks all over the world. His was Tuscan hillsides and ancient vines and quiet villages where restaurants had no signs.
But sitting here, my hand in his, the stars emerging overhead—none of that seemed to matter.
What mattered was this. The ease between us, the way he listened, and the way he saw me.
Maybe that was enough.
The driver brought us back to Matteo’s vineyard.
The night air was warm, heavy with the smell of earth and growing things. Matteo led me through the main house and out onto the terrace, where the valley spread below us, silver in the moonlight.
"It's beautiful," I said.
"It is." But he was looking at me, not the view of the landscape.
We stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, the silence comfortable between us.
Then I felt it. A drop of water on my cheek, cool against warm skin.
Then another.
The rain came suddenly, the way it had that first night I'd stayed here—fat drops that splattered against the stone terrace, soaking through my dress in seconds.
I laughed, turning my face up to the sky, feeling alive.
"We should go inside," Matteo said, but he wasn't moving.
"Should we?"
He was watching me with that look, the one that made my breath catch and my heart stutter. His white shirt was already clinging to his chest, translucent with rain, revealing the tattoo beneath. Water ran down his face, dripped from his strong jaw.
"Bella." His voice was rough. "Won't you let me kiss you in the rain?"
I didn't answer with words.
I grabbed the front of his soaked shirt and pulled him to me.
The kiss was different from before. Hungrier.
More urgent. The rain poured down around us, plastering my dress to my skin, but I didn't care.
All I could feel was him—his hands sliding down my back, his mouth hot against mine, the press of his body as he pulled me closer, eliminating any space between us.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at me, water streaming down his face. Asking permission with his eyes. I answered by kissing him again, harder.
We stumbled through the rain, past the terrace, down a path I vaguely remembered. The cellar door appeared out of the darkness. Matteo fumbled with the handle, pulled it open, drew me inside.
The cellar was cool, dim, filled with the familiar smell of oak and wine. The same cellar where he'd shown me his grandfather's vintages. Where he'd taught me how grapes became something transcendent, magical.
Now he pressed me against one of the old wooden barrels, his mouth finding my neck, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat where my pulse hammered.
I gasped, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt, clumsy with want and need.
"Bella." He pulled back, breathless, his pupils blown wide. His eyes searched my face in the dim light. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm sure."
He kissed me again. Softer this time, reverent. Then his hands began to move with purpose, and I stopped thinking altogether.
He was careful. Attentive. Every touch a question, every response an answer. He learned me the way he learned his wines—slowly, thoroughly, with patience and attention and a focus that made me feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
The cool air of the cellar against my heated skin. The rough wood of the barrel at my back. His breath against my ear, murmuring my name like a prayer.
I came apart in his arms, and he held me through it, held me after, held me like I was something precious. When I could breathe again, he kissed my forehead. My cheeks. The tip of my nose.
"Come," he said softly. "Let me take care of you."
He led me up through the rain, into the house, up the stairs to his room. Not the guest room—his. A large bed with white linens, windows overlooking the valley, shelves lined with books and photographs and small treasures from a life well-lived.
He ran a bath, the water steaming and fragrant. Helped me out of my ruined dress with gentle hands. Eased me into water so warm it made me sigh with relief, with pleasure.
I soaked while he moved around the room, quiet and unhurried. Finding soft towels. Lighting candles that made everything golden.
When I emerged, he was waiting with a towel. He dried me carefully, gently, attending to every part of me with the same focus he brought to everything.
Then he guided me to the bed, face down against cool sheets that smelled like him.
And his hands began to work magic.
The massage was slow, thorough. He found knots I didn't know I had, tension I'd been carrying for months. His thumbs pressed into my shoulders, my back, the base of my spine. I melted into the mattress, boneless, weightless, floating.
"You carry so much," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "Let me help you set it down, Bella. Even just for tonight."
I didn't have words. Just sounds. Small sighs and murmurs that seemed to encourage him.
His hands moved lower. Kneading my hips, my thighs. Working out the aches from too many hours in heels, too many nights of restless sleep.
I turned over, meeting his eyes.
He was above me, his face soft in the candlelight, his expression tender and wanting.
"Bella..."
I reached for him. Pulled him down to me.
The second time was different. Slower. We had all the time in the world now, and we used it. Learning each other's rhythms. Finding the places that made each other gasp, made the world disappear.
I rolled him onto his back. Took control.
His hands found my hips, guiding but not directing. His eyes never left my face, watching every shift in my expression, every flutter of my eyelids.
"Bella," he breathed. "You're—"
I silenced him with a kiss.
The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows. The rain drummed against the windows like music. And we moved together, finding our rhythm, building toward something that felt like finally, like home, like everything I'd been searching for without knowing it.
When I finally fell asleep in his arms, the rain was still falling outside. I didn't dream of anything at all.
I didn't need to.
Reality was better than any dream I could have imagined.