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This was Lorenzo, the man I’d stolen away from another woman at the wedding.
Classic. Lorenzo had always had a lot of balls in the field, juggling them all so he could score not once but over and over again.
“I should probably get going, anyway,” I said.
“Where are you staying?” Lorenzo asked.
“Let’s not go there,” I said.
“I’d like to see you again.”
“Lorenzo…”
“Ah,” he said. “I see. Cold and calculated Celine, who doesn’t let a man in.”
Me? Cold, when he was the one already getting dressed on the tail-end of an orgasm?
“You don’t know me,” I said tightly and looked for my underwear. I found my clothes scattered throughout the penthouse suite and pulled them on as I found them. Panties, bra, dress. I zipped it up, and it was symbolic of me pulling myself together again.
“Oh,mia cara,but I do know you,” Lorenzo said from the bedroom.
He didn’t follow me to the door when I let myself out.
I took a deep breath and let it out with a shudder before I tiptoed to one of the other penthouse suite doors and let myself into the room where the hotel had deposited my luggage. I closed my door quietly, hoping he wouldn’t know exactly how close I was to him.
It was better in all instances to keep my distance from him because a man like that could easily be my undoing, and I was Celine fucking Forger.
I didn’t come undone for anyone.
2
LORENZO
NuvoleVineyardwassituatedin Napa, California, and the pride and joy of my family. My aunt and uncle had started the vineyard when my brother and I had been kids, and we’d spent more time here in the time we’d grown up than anywhere else.
I’d asked to go to Seattle on an exchange program when I’d been in college, not because I’d wanted to learn the American culture—I’d known enough about life here to know what I had. I’d asked to go there because in Seattle, no one had known who I was. I’d just been a kid from Italy there. Here, I was Lorenzo Carelli, nephew of the famous Alfredo Carelli and his wife Luana, Italian immigrants with more money than most local Americans had.
When I arrived after an hour and a half’s flight from LA, I walked into the Tuscan mansion.
My younger brother Gino was on the couch, feet kicked up, watching a series on a streaming service.
“Do you ever work?” I asked.
He jumped up and laughed. He came to me, and we bro-hugged, clapping each other on the back.
Gino was three years younger than my thirty-two years, and his inexperience in life showed. He was the youngest in our family, the baby who had been coddled. He didn’t like to work, but he understood if he wanted to deserve the Carelli name, he had to do something, and he’d started throwing his weight around at the vineyard.
I was a sommelier and traveled around working with wines, hosting tastings and making suggestions to restaurants for pairings. Of course, that meant there had to be indirect contact with Nuvole, which was a win-win for everyone.
“How was the wedding?” Gino asked.
“It was fine. Anna did a great job.”
“You are the one who did a great job, landing a sweet spot and getting them to use our wine.”
I shrugged. I never played without making sure work was taken care of first.
“Did you get in there with Anna?” Gino asked.
