He looks at me thoughtfully. “I have a feeling we’re no longer talking about the painting.”
I consider telling him what I’m planning. I almost do. It’s not because I don’t trust him—I do, especially when it comes to the House of Alighieri. It’s that I’m not yet certain how to proceed, and whatever decision I make, I want it untainted by outside influence.
“Maybe,” I admit and then because I want to lighten the mood that has once again gotten heavy, I muse, “Who do I remind you of when I’m not cutting off heads?”
“The woman who’s holding the entire composition together,” he tells me, his eyes on me, sincere, loving, lustful. “Without her, the painting collapses.”
So much for wanting to diffuse the space between us. My heart starts to bang hard against my ribs.
“Well…that’s dangerously close to flattery.”
He meets my gaze, unflinching.
“I’m done being subtle with the truth, Alessia.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper, stunned at how he's exposing himself, being vulnerable with me.
He tips his chin in acknowledgment. “Why don’t you tell me about the meeting you had with the winemakers today?”
That’s a much easier question to deal with, so I oblige.
“I met the new winemaker in Umbria,” I tell him. “He saidhis Sagrantino was behaving like a sulking bride. Apparently, the fermentation’s been…temperamental.”
Nico huffs a laugh. “What’s the real issue?”
“He’s over-punching the cap,” I say, taking a sip of my wine. “Trying to force extraction instead of letting it build. With Sagrantino, that’s a dangerous game.”
“And did he listen?”
“He’s young and very impressed with himself, so probably not.” I shrug. “If he doesn’t call me in two weeks because the tannins are chewing through his palate, I’ll be surprised.”
Nico grins. “Some lessons need a little time in barrel.”
After dinner, he pours us a glass of port each, and we move to the sofa, drawing slightly closer. The upholstery is soft beneath us, the city’s lights winking through the sheer curtains. The space between us feels alive—less a distance than a charged current of awareness.
“Would you go on a date with me?” he asks me out of the blue.
I frown, puzzled. “A date?”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“That’s a surprise.”
He leans closer. “Come on, Alessia. Let’s both take a break. It’s been a long and hard year. Give me one night.”
I raise both eyebrows. “Awholenight.”
“Yes!”
My pulse quickens. “And what happens after the date?”
“Then we come back and keep building us.”
He’s good-looking and smooth—a dangerous combination. But he’s also my husband, and he’s apologized in five hundred different ways for what he did, or rather, didn’t do. I can keep hanging that over his head, or I can admit my truth:I love Nico, and I want a life with him.
“Okay.” I reach for my port glass. “I’d love to go on a date with you.”
