Page 18 of The Road to You
She mutters something under her breath, but then the road curves, opening up to rows of lush green vines stretching out forever. The vineyard sits at the top of the hill, bathed in golden light, the kind that makes everything look unreal, almost dreamlike. Lena falls silent, and her lips part slightly as she takes it all in. For the first time in weeks, peace eases through my chest.
Maybe I’m not ready to go back, but I have a feeling this trip will help me figure it out.
We sit beneath the pergola,the only two people here aside from the crickets singing their hearts out in the warm July sun. The heat lingers, but the shade from the vines and the occasional breeze make it comfortable. The scent of earth, grapes, and something faintly floral drifts around us, mixing with the rich aroma of food. It’s the kind of afternoon that settles deep into your bones, making you forget about time.
The vineyard owner’s wife approaches, setting down our plates with a warm smile.
“This istortelli di erbette. Fresh pasta stuffed with ricotta cheese and chard, sprinkled with parmesan,” she explains to Lena.
Lena’s eyes widen in surprise. “I thought thegnocco frittowithprosciuttoand…” She hesitates with her brow furrowing. “Squac… squac…”
“Squacquerone,” I supply, grinning.
She points at me. “Yes! That cheese. I thought that was our meal.”
The woman chuckles, and I can’t help but do the same.
“Oh, no, sweetheart, that was just theantipasto. This is the first course. Then comes the second course, then dessert. Coffee anddigestivoafter that.”
Lena’s mouth falls open. “Jesus. I’m going to roll down the vineyard by the end of this meal. The wine doesn’t help either.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a teasing glint in her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed, not just from the heat but from the bottle ofLambruscowe’ve already drunk. And she doesn’t even know about theMalvasiawe’re about to have with thetortelli, or theSangiovesethat will come with the beef.
When the woman walks away, Lena leans back in her chair, stretching her legs out. She tilts her head toward me, with her lips curling slightly. “Be honest. Do you want me to get drunk? Because we’re almost there.”
I chuckle, swirling my wine. “Not on purpose. But we’re in a fantastic winery, eating an authentic meal, and drinking their best bottles. When’s the next time we’ll get to do this?”
She raises an eyebrow. “Fair point. But it’s almost three in the afternoon, and we’re not even halfway through. We won’t have time to visit anything else today.”
I lean back, watching her over the rim of my glass. “Are you in a hurry?”
She shrugs. “Not exactly, but…”
“So relax.” I smile, setting my glass down. “This is an Italian meal. It’s meant to be slow and savored. We’re not supposed to rush through it just to check the next thing off our list.”
She exhales, shaking her head, but I see the way she lets go, just a little.
“You’re right,” she admits. “I’m just not used to it.” She shakes her head, and I feel a bit sad for her. How is it even possible to live always in a rush? My career is not a slow one, but at least I take my time whenever I can to relax and enjoy my life.
We take our time eating, drinking, and talking. The conversation flows effortlessly, and laughter slips between us like it always belonged there. She tells me stories about her childhood, moments that make her wrinkle her nose in embarrassment or cause her to throw her head back in laughter. And I find myself watching her more than I probably should, catching the way she gestures when she talks, how she plays with the stem of her glass, how her eyes light up when she teases me.
Maybe it’s the wine, or maybe it’s just her beauty, but I’m paying too much attention. I know I am, but it seems like I can’t tear my eyes from her mesmerizing face.
By the time we finally push back from the table, it’s nearly five. The vineyard around us is lazy with afternoon warmth, and we’re both drunker than we should be.
I take her hand without thinking as we wander into the vineyard. Her fingers are soft, her grip easy, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the way it feels. She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she holds on tighter when she stumbles slightly on uneven ground, laughing breathlessly.
“We might’ve overdone it,” she murmurs, pressing against my side for balance.
“I have a feeling we did. It’s probably best if I don’t drive and we stay at their bed-and-breakfast for the night instead,” I suggest.
She nods absentmindedly. “I think that’s the right call.”
She steps forward, misjudging her footing, and suddenly, she’s tumbling. I catch her around the waist before she can hit the dirt, pulling her against me. She turns in my arms, her hands landing on my chest, and then she’s just there. Close. Too close. Her perfect body molds to mine like they were made to complement each other.
She tilts her face up, flushed from the wine, and her lips are slightly parted. A few freckles dust her nose, ones I hadn’tnoticed before, and I wonder how I missed them. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just hadn’t let myself focus on them because they are too tempting, too distracting. It would be so easy to just shut off my reasonable self and brush them with my fingers. Or my lips. So, so easy.
I should let go. I know it’s the right call, but I don’t.
