Page 89 of The Wrong Vintage
The vineyard exhales.
Alessia turns to me slowly. "Why on earth did you bring her?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Same reason I had Renzo with me. We were working."
"Renzo isn't trying to fuck you."
I've never seen her like this. Jealous. It's nice.
"How would you know? Renzo might swing both ways."
Okay, so maybe I shouldn't joke with a woman living on very few hours of sleep and caffeine, one whose trigger is hair thin.
"Vaffanculo!" The swear comes out rough, scraped raw by irritation.
"Alessia,cara?—"
"Maybe you should get on that helicopter, too."
"Dolcezza—"
"Quella stronza!That bitch," she continues, talking over me, her eyes fiery. "How dare she stand in front of me, taking photos of my man?"
I like that she thinks I'm hers. Because I am. Completely.
In Chiara's defense, taking photos of me is her job, butI'm not an idiot, and I'm not going to defend her to my very furious wife.
"I stopped her," I point out, but I keep my distance from her because her small hands are balled into fists, and she looks as livid as she does beautiful.
"Buon per te!Good for you," she throws at me sarcastically and then adds, mutinously, "I was about to throw her phone into a fermenter. And then her curvy ass."
I smile even though I know it's going to madden her some more.
"I missed you, too,dolcezza."
20
ALESSIA
I am angry.
Like,reallyangry.
I can't stand Chiara—especially after she tried to pull that stunt at the Palazzo at the anniversary of the launch of Valdoria.
"Not here," I mutter and walk to the house. He follows.
"Alessia," he tries somewhere in the merlot parcels, and I hiss at him.
He lets out one of his arrogant "she's crazy" sighs, which just enrages me some more.
By the time we get home, the light has slipped into indigo.
The windows are open. The smell of crushed fruit clings to my clothes.
And Nico stands in my living room like a man bracing for bad weather.
I can’t sit anywhere until I take a shower—I’m filthy.
