Page 39 of The Wrong Vintage
It had been one of those press-heavy, sun-drenched weekends meant to reassure and charm distributors in Mallorca, a month after the engagement was announced.
Too much sparkling wine.
Too many late dinners that blurred into early mornings.
Chiara had cornered me on a terrace overlooking the sea, music drifting up from the beach below, her hand lingering where it shouldn’t have, her words crossing from suggestion into assumption.
I’d shut it down immediately.
Clearly.
Told her that whatever dynamic we once had was over, that my engagement wasn’t symbolic, and that if she ever mistook proximity for permission again, she’d be out of a job.
I drew a line cleanly, so there would be no room to pretend it hadn’t been intentional.
And yet…I did let her plaster photographs of me with her everywhere and fueled the rumors about the newly-hitched playboy Nico Alarico stepping out, as expected, on the plain Alighieri sister.
Chiara hitches her Prada bag up her shoulder. “We should head to Siena.”
It’s where we’re staying the night before we go to Rome for some event.
I look at my wife, who’s now laughing as she speaks to her laptop via her earbuds.“Thank you, Thibaud. Si, we’ll absolutely host you at Tenuta Pietra Alta. Bring your family.”
“I’m staying. You can go.”
Chiara gasps. “What?”
I look at her. “Tell the driver to take my suitcase into the house. I’ll be staying.”
“But…we have Rome and?—”
“I’ll ask Renzo to fill in for me.” He’s going to hate that, but if I tell him it’s so I can spend time with my wife, he’ll be fine with it.
Chiara looks at my wife and then at me. “Really? You’re intoher?”
“Careful,” I warn. “Alessia is my wife.”
I like calling her my wife, I realize, because I’ve been doing it a lot since we came here this afternoon.
She shoots me a look that’s half disgust, half disbelief. “Fine. I’ll let Renzo know.”
She walks away.
I stand under the cypress tree to look at my wife, who looks absolutely beautiful in the twilight.
9
ALESSIA
I clear my throat. “You’re staying?”
“Yes,” he says casually, as if the words don’t send my pulse skidding off course. “Is that all right?”
“Yes…of course.”
Not at all.
Not when you came with that woman who tried to humiliate me.
