Chapter 11
ALESSIA
We sit at the table under the pergola, neither of us eager to be the first to suggest ending an evening we’re both enjoying.
The plates are empty, the wine bottle lighter, the night settled comfortably around us.
Cicadas have taken over the soundtrack of the estate.
The air cools as the winds roll in from the Tyrrhenian Sea, carrying salt and metal like stone warmed all day and only now allowed to breathe.
Bolgheri isn’t enclosed the way valleys are. It’s open—caught between the Tyrrhenian Sea and the Colline Metallifere—shaped by what moves through it rather than what contains it. The hills act as a partial rain shadow, keeping Bolgheri drier than inland Tuscany.
Across the darkness, the silhouette of Elba rests on the horizon—the island where Napoleon was once exiled. The island is an example of how confinement and exposure can coexist. How Elba, an obscure landmass surrounded by water, came to be in the limelight for housing Napoleon’s incarceration.
“This breeze,” I say softly, more to myself than to Nico, “is why our cabernets don’t overripen. The sea keeps us honest.”
He gives me his full attention. It’s disconcerting and flattering that he cares to know what I think.
He nods. “At night, Bolgheri seems somehow closer to the water.”
Every day, the sea sends afternoon and evening breezes inland, which collide with a chain of low, mineral-rich hills that run roughly north–south behind Bolgheri, creating the diurnal temperature swings, warm days and cool nights, imperative for the making of good wine.
“The sea shapes everything here,” I continue. “Even in the hottest summers. It cools the fruit, thickens the skins, and preserves acidity. You can taste it in the wine if you know where to look. That tension. That edge.”
His eyes widen, and I see…lust, arousal, and it shoots excitement through me as well.
“The way you talk about terroir, cara, is poetic.”
My pulse flutters.
Cara.
He’s called me that before, but it never felt intimate.
It does now.
I swirl what’s left in my glass as a way to ignore the heat pooling between my legs and the hope in my heart. “Bolgheri wouldn’t be Bolgheri without the sea—or Elba sitting there, reminding us that geography is never neutral.”
The night hums on around us, history and wind and vines braided together.
He leans and traces a thumb over my lips.
I freeze in time and space.
It’s just a tender brush of skin against skin, and yet, I want….
I stand up so quickly that my chair rattles. “Maybe…ah…it’s time for bed?”
Nico doesn’t object and starts to clear the table without being asked. He stacks plates neatly, like he’s nervous he’ll do it wrong, and that makes me smile.
“I can take care of this,” I tell him.
Maybe he can go away for a while so I can calm myself before I have to share a bed with him, which is scary and exciting.
“I want to,” he replies simply.
We move around each other in the kitchen with exaggerated politeness—passing, stopping, apologizing when there’s no need. At one point, our hands brush over the sink, and we both stop like we’ve been caught doing something scandalous.
“I’m sorry,” we say at the same time.
We laugh, and my chest loosens.
When everything is put away, there’s nothing left to delay the inevitable.
“So,” I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Bed.”
“Yes,” he agrees, a beat too quickly. Then, he adds, “I mean to sleep. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Silence stretches.
“This way.” I gesture vaguely and unnecessarily toward the hallway.
He took a shower in my bathroom. He already knows my house.
We walk side by side, not touching, as if the narrow corridor might combust if we do.
When we reach the bedroom, I flick on the lamp, suddenly very aware that this is my space. My bed. My quiet. The place where I’ve slept alone for years.
I tell him to use the bathroom first, and I go into the ensuite attached to Alba’s room. There’s a spare toothbrush for me there, along with all her gazillion toiletries.
I look at myself in the mirror after brushing my teeth as I apply moisturizer.
Considering how much I work outside, I am careful with my skin. It’s not vanity. It’s health. So, I never ever wander out without sunblock.
“What should I wear?” I ask my reflection.
Usually, I wear a nightshirt and panties, and if it’s warm, as it is this time of year, I sleep naked.
Well, that isn’t going to work tonight.
I open Alba’s closet. We’re the same size. I find lingerie.
Seriously, Alba? Why on earth would you have a red negligee?
I finally find an oversized T-shirt that looks like it belongs to a man, probably an ex-boyfriend. It comes to mid-thigh. Appropriate night-time attire to sleep with my husband, who is essentially a stranger.
When did my life become an American soap opera?
Nico is in his underwear when I come back. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s wearing only his white boxer shorts—the color stark against the olive of his skin.
He looks good. Very good.
Merda.
I gasp.
He turns, smiles, and removes his watch, setting it on my dresser.
“I didn’t know which side you sleep on,” he informs me as he casually walks up to the bed like we do this every night.
I can’t look away. Sturdy, hair-roughened thighs. Someone told me he played soccer in college. There are muscles…like everywhere.
I’m fit. Not because I work out, but because I have a job that requires physical movement all the time. But his body is a—
“Alessia?”
I look up from his man nipples to his face.
He’s amused. He knows how he looks. He knows the effect he’s having on me.
Cretino! Jerk!
I stand there for an awkward second too long.
“Well,” I blurt, “I usually sleep on the left.”
“Okay.”
“Is it…ah, okay?”
He smirks. “Yes, Alessia, it is. I don’t have a usual side.”
“Is that because you never stay long enough to need one?” I clap my hand over my mouth as soon as the words are out. I can’t believe I just said that.
He chuckles but thankfully says nothing.
I slip under the covers first, lying stiffly on my side, hands folded on my stomach like I’m preparing for surgery.
The mattress dips as he lies down beside me—careful, deliberate, keeping a polite distance that somehow feels more familiar than if he’d pulled me close.
We stare at the ceiling.
“This feels,” I begin, then stop.
“Preposterous?” he offers.
“Yes,” I agree, relieved. “Like we’re sixteen.”
“I’ve never been this well-behaved in my life.”
“That’s…comforting,” I deadpan.
He turns his head toward me. “Are you okay?”
I turn, too, just enough to see his outline in the low light. “I am. I’m just not used to this.”
“Me neither,” he admits. “Sleeping next to someone without expectations.”
The honesty makes my throat tighten.
“Good night, Nico.” With that, I hope I can put an end to this conversation before I say something stupid.
He looms over me, unexpectedly.
I can see him in the shadows, the light spilling in from outside.
He leans, brushes his lips against mine. It’s a whisper of a kiss, a mere caress.
“Buonanotte, cara.”
His voice is sexy, and I wish I had the right to turn into him, hold him while I sleep. It’s been a long, long while since I’ve been with a man, had the comfort of strong arms wrapped around me, making me feel less alone.
“Good night,” I whisper back.
But when he rolls away, I stay still, my hands clenched around the light sheet that is ideal for summer in Tuscany.
We lie, not touching, breathing in sync without meaning to.
At some point, I realize I’m smiling into the dark.