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“No, it won’t. If you have to drink wine to want this, then you should listen to your instincts.”
“My instincts are the problem.”
“Oh?”
He stepped into the hallway and suddenly, everything felt too small and close, particularly Alessio. She moved away quickly, only exhaling when he shut the door. Once in the kitchen, she turned around, facing him and feeling a now-familiar rush of awareness.
“Your instincts?” He prompted, placing the paper bag down and beginning to lift takeaway containers from within.
“Mmm,” she agreed, opening the bottle of wine and pouring two glasses. “They seem to take over whenever we’re together and override everything else.”
“Isn’t that what instincts are supposed to do?”
She considered that. “What if they’re wrong?”
“And this is a mistake?”
She nodded slowly.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” His eyes bore into hers. “I’m leaving town as soon as I can. Maybe even sooner.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Why do you hate them so much?”
“Will that affect your instincts?” He asked after a beat, and his tone, while light, showed that he was holding something back.
She slid one of the wine glasses across to him, her eyes on his face, wondering at the sense of frustration she felt at being kept in the dark, then dismissing the emotion. After all, what did it matter?
“I care about them,” she said, finally. “They’ve both been very good to me, since I moved out here.”
A muscle throbbed at the base of his jaw. “Is it necessary that we feel the same way?”
“No,” she pushed the topic aside. “I was just curious.”
“Naturally.”
His response put her at ease.
“As for the matter of instincts,” he continued, lifting his wine glass midway to his lips. “I have learned to follow mine, unfailingly.”
“And are you always right?”
“No, not always.”
“Then that’s not very helpful.”
His grin was wolfish. “Actually, even when they turn out to be wrong, I find I learn something from the experience. Sometimes, that is more valuable than getting it right the first time.”
“Interesting. You strike me as someone who wouldn’t like being wrong. In fact, you strike me as someone who’d find that hard to admit.”
He laughed. “Well, I don’tlikeit,” he said with a lift of his shoulders and Charlotte found she was smiling too. “But only a fool believes he doesn’t ever make mistakes.”
“And you’re no fool.”
“I hope not.” There was arrogance in his statement though, and she understood that he knew he was almost always the smartest person in the room. He spoke with that kind of confidence, with the unflinching certainty that all would bow down and obey him.
“Do your mistakes tend to be business, or personal?”
He sipped his wine. “They have been both, in the past.”
