No.
I sprang away from him, stumbling slightly, my hand coming up to my lips. They were swollen, tingling. I could still taste him, champagne and mint and something uniquely Femi.
I was suddenly reminded of the problem between us. Kissing was easy. It had always been easy. Making love had been phenomenal, the kind of sex that ruined you for other people.
But our futures? Very different. Different lives, different paths, different dreams, everything.
He wanted a wife, children, a home base. I wanted boutiques in every major city, fashion weeks, my name on labels worn by women. He wanted me to be his. I wanted to be mine first.
We could never work. The math didn’t add up. It wasn’t in the stars for us.
I smoothened the skirt of my dress with shaking hands, backing away from him like he was dangerous. He was dangerous to my peace, my plans, and my carefully constructed life.
“I have to go,” I said, and then I was speed-walking back into the party, practically running my heels clicking frantically against the floor.
But I didn't go toward my family. I couldn't face them yet. Xavier would take one look at my face and know exactly what had happened. Kim, who I knew had been watching me earlier with those too-knowing eyes, would definitely figure it out.
My eyes darted around the room frantically. Where could I possibly hide? Where could I catch my breath, pull myself together, remember who I was?
Before I could think about it further, I made my way to the wine bar at the far right of the rooftop.
I ordered red. Italian. The first thing on the list that looked expensive enough to be good, pointing at it with a finger that trembled slightly. The glass arrived and I gripped it with both hands like it was a lifeline, like it could anchor me to reality.
Breathe. Just breathe.
"You might want to let it open first."
I looked up, startled out of my spiral.
A man was standing a few feet away, near the bar but not behind it. He had sandy brown hair, slightly tousled like he'd been running his hands through it. Strong jaw. Tan skin that suggested time spent outdoors, working with his hands, living a life that involved sun and earth and physical labor.
He wore a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that were surprisingly muscular, dark trousers, no tie. He dressed well but not trying too hard, he looked comfortable in his own skin.
And his eyes, warm brown, watched me with something that looked like amusement mixed with concern. His smile was perfectly innocent, but there was an intelligence behind it that suggested he saw more than he let on.
"The wine," he clarified, gesturing at my glass. "It's been in the bottle all day. Give it a few minutes to breathe. Let the tannins soften. Let it open up."
"Are you always this bossy about other people's drinks?"
He laughed. "Only when they're drinking my wine."
I frowned, looking down at my glass with new interest. "Your wine?"
"My vineyard. In Tuscany." He stepped closer and extended his hand. "Matteo Rossi."
I took his hand automatically, years of social conditioning overriding my current emotional chaos. His grip was firm, his palm slightly callused. Working, honest hands. Not what I expected.
"Isabelle Dubois."
"I know." He released my hand but didn't retreat. "The fashion designer, yes? London?"
"You've heard of me?" I asked, surprised.
"Your spring collection was featured inCorriere della Sera.My sister sent me the article. She's obsessed with your work." His smile widened, showing straight white teeth. "She has a photograph from your runway show as her phone background. I've been subjected to several lectures on your use of asymmetrical hemlines and 'architectural draping,' whatever that means."
I blinked. I hadn't expected that. The Italian press had covered the show, yes, but to have someone's sister, or someone in Tuscany, caring enough to follow my work? It felt surreal. Good, but surreal.
"Tell her thank you."
