16. Isabelle
I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone singing in Italian.
The bed beside me was empty, but the sheets were still warm where he'd been lying. Matteo's pillow held the indent of his head, and I pressed my face into it without thinking, breathing him in—cedar and wine and something uniquely him.
Last night.
The memories washed over me in waves—the rain soaking through our clothes, the cellar with its ancient barrels, his hands learning every curve of me, his mouth everywhere, the way he'd said my name like it was something sacred, something to be cherished.
I stretched beneath the covers, my body pleasantly sore in ways that made me smile at the ceiling.
I could get used to this.
I found one of his shirts in the closet, pulled it over my bare skin, and followed the singing downstairs.
The kitchen was flooded with morning light. Matteo stood at the stove, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, flipping something in a pan. He looked up when I entered, and his face split into a grin that made my heart skip.
"Buongiorno, Bella." He crossed the room in three strides and kissed me, long and slow. "Did you sleep well?"
"Mmm." I leaned into him. "Eventually."
"Eventually." His grin widened, eyes dancing with mischief. "I like eventually very much."
He guided me to a stool at the kitchen island, where a cup of coffee was already waiting. I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic, watching him move back to the stove with easy grace.
"What are you making?"
"Frittata. My mother's recipe." He cracked another egg into the bowl. "She taught me when I was twelve. Said every man should know how to cook breakfast for the woman he—"
The kitchen door opened.
I froze mid-sip.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was small, elegant, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a loose bun and Matteo's warm brown eyes. She wore a simple linen dress the color of olive leaves and carried a woven basket overflowing with ripe tomatoes.
Her gaze moved from Matteo to me. Took in his shirtless state. My bare legs. The obvious implications.
"Mamma." Matteo set down the spatula. "I didn't know you were coming by."
"Clearly." But she was smiling, something warm and knowing in her expression. Her eyes landed on me again, assessing but not unkind. "You must be Isabelle."
She knew my name.
"I—yes." I tugged at the hem of Matteo's shirt, painfully aware of how little I was wearing, how exposed I was. "It's lovely to meet you, Signora Rossi."
"Elena, per favore." She set the basket on the counter and crossed the room toward me. "And none of this Signora business. We're not formal here."
I braced myself for awkwardness. For pointed questions, suspicious looks, the protective scrutiny of a mother meeting her son's new... whatever I was.
Instead, she pulled me into a hug.
It was warm, firm, the embrace of someone who meant it. She smelled like tomatoes and sunshine and something floral underneath. Lavender, maybe.
"It's so good to finally meet you," she said against my hair, her accent thicker than Matteo's. "Matteo has told me so much."
"Mamma." There was a warning in his voice.
"What? I'm not allowed to be happy?" She released me, holding me at arm's length to study my face. "You're even more beautiful than he said. And he said quite a lot."
"Mamma."
"I'm going, I'm going." She patted my cheek affectionately, then turned to kiss Matteo on the forehead the way mothers do. "I just came to drop off tomatoes from the garden. I'll leave you two alone."
She collected her basket—empty now—and headed for the door. At the threshold, she paused, looking back at me.
"Isabelle. You'll stay for dinner tonight, yes? I want to teach you my grandmother's pasta recipe."
"I—" I looked at Matteo helplessly. He shrugged, smiling, leaving the decision to me. "I'd love that. Thank you."
"Meraviglioso." Elena beamed, her whole face lighting up. "I'll see you both at six. Don't be late."
She disappeared through the door, and the kitchen fell quiet except for the sizzle of the frittata.
Matteo turned back to the stove, shaking his head. "I'm sorry about that. She has no concept of boundaries."
"I liked her."
"Everyone likes her. That's the problem—she knows it and uses it to her advantage." But he was smiling. "She's been asking about you for weeks. I think she was starting to worry I'd made you up."
"You told her about me?"
"Of course I did, Bella." He slid the golden frittata onto a plate and brought it to the island, our knees touching as he sat beside me. "She's my mother. I tell her everything that matters."
We ate breakfast together, our knees touching under the counter, feet tangling beneath the stools.
The frittata was perfect—fluffy, golden, filled with herbs from the garden.
Matteo stole bites from my plate and I pretended to be annoyed, swatting his hand away while secretly loving the intimacy of it.
After breakfast, he took me through the vineyard.
The morning sun was already warm on my shoulders, the sky a deep endless blue without a single cloud. We walked between rows of vines, their leaves bright green and rustling in the breeze. Matteo explained the different varieties—Sangiovese, Canaiolo, Colorino.
I'd heard some of it before, during my first visit. But it was different now. Now I watched his hands as he touched the leaves with gentle reverence, listened to the passion thrumming through his voice, and saw the way his entire face lit up when he talked about the upcoming harvest.
This was his world. And he was letting me into it.
"Here, try this." He stopped at the end of a row and picked a grape, holding it out to me.
I took it from his fingers, the grape warm from the sun, its skin taut and perfect. I bit into it, and sweetness flooded my tongue—intense and concentrated.
"Good?"
"Very good."
"These will be ready in a few weeks." He picked another, and ate it himself. "The 2024 vintage. I think it's going to be special."
"You say that every year, don't you?"
"Every year I hope." He smiled. "Sometimes, I'm right. Sometimes, the wine gods smile on us."
We walked back to the house hand in hand, the sun climbing higher, the day stretching out before us full of possibility and unspoken promise.
We arrived at Elena’s at six, armed with multiple bags of ingredients, and she instantly made me wear an apron.
"The secret to good pasta is patience," she said, measuring flour onto the wooden board. "And eggs from happy chickens. Matteo, go get the eggs."
"Yes, Mamma."
He disappeared obediently, and Elena turned to me with a conspiratorial smile, lowering her voice. “Now. While he's gone. Tell me everything."
"Everything?"
"How you met. What you think of him. Whether he's being a gentleman." She cracked an egg into the flour well with one smooth motion. "He better be treating you properly, or he'll answer to me."
"He is." I watched her hands, the way they moved with decades of muscle memory. "He's been... wonderful, actually."
"Good. He gets that from me." She winked. "His father was useless in the romance department. Matteo had to learn from somewhere."
Matteo returned with the eggs, and the cooking lesson began in earnest. Elena guided my hands through the motions—forming the well, incorporating the eggs, kneading until the dough was smooth and elastic. She corrected my technique gently, praised my efforts generously.
"You're a natural," she declared after watching me roll out the dough. "Much better than Matteo was at your age."
"I was eight, Mamma."
"And you made a terrible mess. Flour everywhere, even on the ceiling somehow. The dog was white for a week."
I laughed—a real laugh that came from my belly. Matteo groaned dramatically.
"Bella, amore." He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist as I rolled out another sheet of dough. "Let me do this for you. You should sit, relax, and enjoy the wine."
"I want to learn."
"You can learn by watching."
"That's not learning, that's spectating."
Elena chuckled, sipping her wine with obvious satisfaction. "I like her, Matteo. She doesn't let you get away with anything. You need that."
"I've noticed, Mamma. Believe me, I've noticed."
Dinner was served on the terrace as the sun began to set. The pasta was simple and perfect—fresh noodles coated in sauce that tasted like summer itself. We ate and drank and talked until the stars came out.
Elena told stories about Matteo as a child.
The time he got lost in the vineyard and was found asleep under a vine.
The summer he decided to become a professional soccer player and broke three windows practicing.
The girl he'd brought home at sixteen who'd turned out to be terrified of dogs, which was unfortunate given the three they'd had at the time.
"Mamma, per favore." Matteo's face was red. "She doesn't need to hear all of this."
"She absolutely does. How else will she know what she's getting into?"
I laughed until my cheeks hurt. Matteo pretended to be mortified, but I could see the warmth in his eyes. The way he looked at his mother—with exasperation and love tangled together.
This was what family could look like. Easy. Warm. Full of teasing and laughter and stories passed down like heirlooms.
After dinner, Elena hugged me goodbye at the door.
"You'll come back," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I'd like that very much."
"Good." She kissed both my cheeks. "Take care of my boy."
"Mamma, I don't need taking care of—"
"Everyone needs taking care of, tesoro." She patted his cheek affectionately. "Even stubborn sons who think they know everything."
We left her house, and we were quiet when we came back to Matteo’s home. We settled on the terrace, each holding glasses of wine. The night was warm, the stars impossibly bright. I leaned against Matteo's shoulder, his arm around me, and felt something settle in my chest.
Peace. That's what this was. Pure, uncomplicated peace.
"Bella."
I looked up. He was watching me, his expression soft and open and vulnerable.
"Ti amo."