Chapter 12 #3
She’s strong, not thin.
She’s resilient, not flat.
She’s substance, not ether.
She’s stunning, not classically beautiful.
I nod happily. “I’d like that very much.”
The bed is warm, the sheets faintly rumpled.
Alessia’s side is empty, already cooling, and for a disorienting second, I wonder if I imagined last evening and night.
We tasted wine, had dinner, leftovers from the tasting room, and we slept together. This time, I kissed her long and deep when I said good night, held her as we fell asleep.
The memory of her—soft where I expected restraint, responsive in ways that I don’t deserve—rises, makes me happy, especially the way she looked at me as if I were something she’d chosen, not something imposed.
And then, just as quickly, something else surfaces.
Fear.
This is where I usually run.
Not physically—though I’ve done that, too—but emotionally.
This happens when a relationship shifts from pleasant to dangerous.
When desire threatens to harden into attachment.
When control slips.
I stare up at the ceiling and confront the ugliest truth of all: a part of me still thinks I wasn’t supposed to fall for a woman like Alessia.
Plain. Quiet. Unadorned.
The thought disgusts me almost as soon as it forms.
That isn’t truth—that’s vanity.
That’s the shallow, curated version of myself I learned to perform because it was easier than examining what actually holds weight.
I know myself well enough to recognize the reflex for what it is, and I don’t indulge it.
Voices drift through the open window.
Alessia laughing, Lucia answering her, the low murmur of a crew beginning its day.
Somewhere nearby, metal clinks softly.
Tools.
Buckets.
Vineyard work.
She’s already out there.
A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.
This is what she meant when she said her vines determine her geography. And suddenly, fiercely, I don’t want to pull her away from that.
I want to move closer to it…and her.
I throw the covers back and get dressed quickly.
I’m energized.
The day stretches ahead—emails, calls, decisions—but none of it feels urgent in the way it usually does.
I want to sit under the pergola with my laptop, excellent Wi-Fi, and strong coffee, and watch my wife move through the vines. I want to let the rhythm of the estate seep into my bones.
I want to work near her.
I want her.
I open the door and step into the morning, the air cool and alive, and for the first time since my wedding, I don’t feel like a man managing an arrangement. I am a husband starting his day with his wife.
I find her near the pergola, exactly where I imagined she’d be.
She’s standing beside Edam, both of them bent over a tablet laid flat on the table, the screen crowded with charts and maps.
Vineyard parcels broken down into color-coded blocks, numbers layered over contour lines. Edam gestures with two fingers, zooming in, then out.
“If we pick the lower slope first,” he says, “we risk losing freshness on the upper rows. The heat’s been lingering longer this year.”
They’re game planning harvest.
Alessia nods, thoughtful. “But the Cab Franc up there is holding acidity better. Night temperatures dropped more than forecast.” She taps the screen. “See? The diurnal swing has been sharper this week.”
Edam grins. “You trust the data over your eyes?”
“I trust both,” she replies. “But the data keeps me from lying to myself.”
I stop a few steps away.
She looks up and notices me, a faint surprise crossing her face before it softens into something shy.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply, my voice still rough with sleep.
Edam straightens. “Good morning.”
“We’re reviewing harvest sequencing,” Alessia explains.
“Looks riveting,” I say honestly.
Edam chuckles. “It is. Alessia thinks in three dimensions. Makes the rest of us look lazy.”
Alessia ducks her head slightly at that, embarrassed, and gestures toward the table. “Coffee?”
I notice the French press then—half full, steam still ghosting up from the spout. She pours without asking.
She sets a mug in front of me, then lifts the dome off a plate of jam-filled crostata slices.
“Lucia stole them from the tasting room.”
Edam glances between us and smiles to himself. “I’ll leave you to it. We’ll finalize the pick order this afternoon.”
Alessia nods. “Thank you.”
When we’re alone, the quiet settles comfortably between us. There is no awkwardness.
“I’m going to work from here today,” I tell her, lifting the coffee. “Renzo will dial in later. I’ll set up under the pergola.”
She smiles hesitantly, as if she doesn’t trust me, us. “I’ll be in the vines most of the morning.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
The ease of it startles me.
Two people making plans.
Overlapping days.
Life.
God, but I want her!
She sees something in my eyes, which makes her take a step back. “I should…I should—"
Oh no, wife, you’re not running away.
“Kiss me, dolcezza, so I can begin my day with something sweet.”
She flushes.
I pull her to me and drop my mouth on hers, taste coffee, jam, and Alessia.
Some mornings do start better than others.