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“Bringing out the big guns,” I teased. “Dante Russo, are you trying to impress me?”
“Depends.” He handed me a glass and watched as I took a small sip. “Is it working?”
The rich flavors of berry fruits, violets, and cassis burst onto my tongue, mixed with a fine minerality and complex earthiness.
Textural. Potent. Elegant.
No wonder people were willing to shell out the big bucks for a bottle. It was the best wine I’d ever tasted.
“Yes,” I said, already heady from one sip and a night that’d barely begun. “Quite well.”
“Then yes, I am.” His eyes danced with amusement as I went back for seconds. “You’re turning red,mia cara.”
I was extremely sensitive to red wine, which was why I usually stuck with whites and rosés. Even those made my face glow crimson after a glass or two, but the DRC was too exquisite to waste.
“It’s not my fault,” I said, embarrassed. “It’s the tannins.”
“It’s adorable.” He brushed a thumb over my flushed cheek.
Warmth curled low in my stomach.
Grumpy, brooding Dante had grown on me the past few months. But sweet, playful Dante? He was kryptonite to my heart.
After dinner, I pulled a blanket over us and rested my head on Dante’s shoulder, half sleepy and half buzzing from the high of the date. He wrapped an arm around my waist, the weight strong and comforting against my back.
The stars twinkled above us like a display of diamonds on midnight velvet. They were projections, but they looked so real I almost believed we were somewhere in the wilderness, watching the skies and listening to the silence.
“When I was little, our parents would take us camping.” I didn’t know where the words came from, but they felt right for the moment. “My father would drive, my mother would pack way too many snacks, and my sister and I would try to spot as many states’ license plates on the road as we could.”
I hated bugs, and I wasn’t a big outdoors person, but I’d loved those trips because we’d done them as a family. Since then, we’d upgraded to summers in St. Tropez and Christmases in St. Barth’s, but I missed the simplicity of our early family vacations.
“At night, when we were supposed to be asleep, Agnes and I would sneak out of our tent and count the stars,” I continued. “We’d pretend they were people living in a celestial realm and made up backstories for all of them.”
“Any interesting ones?”
I smiled. “Tons. One was plotting to overthrow the ruler of the kingdom. Another was having an affair with her awful husband’s most trusted guard. Shooting stars were people who’d been exiled and cast down to earth.”
Dante’s laugh vibrated through my body. “Sounds like a soap opera.”
“We were children. We had active imaginations, okay?” I nudged his leg with mine. “Don’t tell me you never made up stories about the things around you.”
“Sorry to disappoint, but my imagination isn’t as good as yours.” He rubbed an absentminded thumb over my hip. “My family never went camping. My grandfather was strictly a resort or private estate type of person. He didn’t want Luca and me to lose touch with our culture, so he sent us to Italy with Greta every summer. We had—have—houses all over the country. Rome, Tuscany, Milan…we visited a different place every year.”
“What’s your favorite place in Italy?”
“Villa Serafina.” His family’s estate in Lake Como. “The lake, the gardens…twelve-year-old me thought it was magical.”
“Where the wedding will take place,” I murmured. “I can’t wait to see it.”
We were scheduled to stay there in the month leading up to the ceremony. I’d only seen pictures, but even through a screen, it was breathtaking.
“Yes.” A strange note entered Dante’s voice. “Where the wedding will take place.”
“It’ll be perfect. My mother wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said dryly. She’d been driving me nuts with endless calls about the flowers, tableware, and a thousand other details she shouldn’t be micromanaging, but I hadn’t expected anything less. I was her last opportunity to go all out on a big wedding. “At least my father isn’t also hounding me about china patterns. He got the date he wanted. That’s all he cares about.”
“August eighth. Let me guess. It’s the date he made his first million.”
I laughed. “Close, but not quite. Eight is his favorite number.”
