Page 38 of Shattered Oath
"It was natural." He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But yes. Perhaps stick to fabric, leave the grapes to me."
"Gladly." I took a sip, letting the wine coat my tongue. "This is incredible, by the way. Truly."
"Grazie." He leaned back in his chair, watching me with open curiosity. "So tell me. How did you get into fashion? You said rebellion once in New York. That sounds like there’s a story."
I traced the rim of my glass, considering how much to share. "My family was in the hotel business. Still is, I suppose. My brothers run it now."
"And you weren't interested?"
"I was very interested. That was the problem." I smiled, but it felt tight, old anger stirring. "The business was for men. Women in my family were expected to sit and look pretty. Wait for life to be handed to us instead of taking it."
"That doesn't sound like you at all."
"It wasn't. So I rebelled. Chose something as far from hotels as I could imagine. Something that was completely mine. Something my father couldn't control or dismiss." I shrugged, but the gesture felt heavy. "He dismissed it anyway, of course. Called it mylittle boutiquelike it was a hobby. A phase I'd grow out of."
"And did you?"
"No. I doubled down and worked harder. Made it impossible to ignore." I met his eyes. "I built something he couldn't diminish."
Matteo was quiet for a moment. "A fighting spirit," he said finally. "I love that."
"You have to fight for the things you want. No one hands them to you."
"No." He raised his glass. "Salute. To dreams we don't give up on, no matter who tells us to."
Our glasses clinked. The wine was warm in my throat, loosening something in my chest, some knot I’d been carrying for so long I’d forgotten it was there.
The sky had deepened to purple, stars beginning to emerge through the thick clouds. The air was soft and smelled like jasmine. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt this relaxed.
"I should probably go," I said, even though I didn't want to. "It's getting late."
As if in answer, the sky opened up.
Rain came suddenly, violently—fat drops that splattered against the stone terrace, soaking everything in seconds.
"Inside!" Matteo grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door. "Quickly!"
We ran, laughing, stumbling over chairs. By the time we made it through the door, we were both completely drenched. Water dripped from my hair, my clothes plastered to my skin. Matteo's t-shirt clung to his chest.
We stood in the hallway, catching our breath, grinning at each other like children who'd gotten away with something.
And then the grinning faded.
He was looking at me differently now. His eyes moved over my face, my wet hair, my flushed cheeks, then to my lips. The space between us felt charged, electric.
He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers were warm against my skin, gentle yet deliberate.
We were so close. I could see the individual droplets of water on his eyelashes. Could smell the rain on him, mixed with wine and something warmer underneath–skin and heat and want.
My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.
His phone rang.
The sound shattered the moment like glass. He blinked, stepped back, and pulled the phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, something unreadable crossing his face.
"I'll answer later." He slipped it back into his pocket. "Let me show you where you'll be sleeping."
I followed Matteo down a hallway lined with old photographs. Family portraits, vineyard scenes, generations of Rossis looking down at us from the walls.
