Page 70 of Shattered Oath
I tasted it, letting the wine coat my tongue before swallowing. "Good. Maybe too light, though? It might get lost next to the reds we selected."
"Fair point." He poured the second with practiced ease. "The Vermentino has more body. Floral notes, a bit of minerality. It can hold its own."
I tried it. Better. More complexity, more presence. "I like this one."
"I thought you might." He smiled, that warm private smile that made my chest feel tight. "The rosé is just for fun. In case you want a third option."
He poured. The wine was pale pink, almost salmon-colored. I raised the glass, but my hand wasn't steady, and a few drops splashed over the rim, landing on my fingers.
"Oh—"
"Here, let me." Matteo was already reaching for a cloth napkin. He took my hand in his gently, dabbing at the wine on my skin with careful attention.
His touch was warm. Gentle. He cleaned each finger individually, his head bent over my hand, his attention focused entirely on the task like it was the most important thing in the world.
I watched him the entire time. The way his brow furrowed slightly in concentration, the way his thumb brushed my palm as he worked, the dark lashes against his cheek.
"There," he said softly. "All clean."
But he didn't let go of my hand.
He looked up. Our eyes met and held.
The tasting room was very quiet. I could hear my own breathing, could feel my pulse thudding in my wrist where his fingers rested.
"Bella."His voice was rough, strained. "I've been thinking about you. Constantly."
"You shouldn't."
"I know." He didn't look away, and still hasn’t released my hand. "I can't help it."
"Matteo—"
"Tell me to stop." His thumb traced a slow circle on my palm, sending electricity up my arm. "Tell me you don't think about me too, and I'll stop. I'll never mention it again."
I should have said it. Should have pulled my hand away, stood up, walked out.
I didn't.
"I think about you," I whispered, the admission feeling like falling. "I shouldn't, but I do."
Something shifted in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or surrender.
He stood slowly and came around the counter with purpose. I turned on my stool to face him, my heart hammering.
We were close now. Close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, count his eyelashes, and feel the heat radiating from his body.
His hand came up, cupped my face. His palm was warm, calloused slightly from work, gentle against my cheek.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he said quietly. "If you don't want me to, say so."
I didn't say anything.
He leaned in, and I met him halfway.
The first brush of his lips was soft, tentative, a question asked with his mouth.
I answered by leaning into him, by parting my lips, by reaching up to grip the front of his shirt.
