“But what about the SommFest?”
“I did not know I was going to be at the competition. When we met, I had not yet sent the application. Were you ever planning to be a judge?”
“No.”
“So. It seems you are accusing me of having psychic powers in addition to seducing you for my professional gain.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything. Not anymore. I’m sorry, I panicked.”
Giovanni nodded once and then remained still next to her, seemingly in no hurry to get back into the giant ballroom.
“My ex-husband is in there somewhere.” Tabitha nodded toward the door, and Giovanni glanced toward the door as if he would see Royal standing at the entrance to the room, then turned his eyes back to Tabitha. “I’m going to have to see him. To compete against him.”
“You are no longer friends?”
“We were never friends. Now we are hardly civil. He’s a terrible person. Which is fine, you know? The world is full of terrible people. But I act like a terrible person when I’m around him.”
Giovanni pursed his lips and nodded. Tabitha tried to stare at him from the corner of her eye. Now that they were not crammed in the tiny seats of the ballroom, she could relax her body, pay attention to him again. His hair had grown a bit longer. It curled over his ears and to his shirt collar. He wore a trim linen blazer, fitted to his slim waist, over an open-collared shirt. He looked professional, but not too professional. She wanted to stare at him forever. She must have been drunk in Italy to spend the night with someone who looked like this. Men this beautiful were nothing but trouble; she’d already learned that the hard way.
But that was yet another lie she told herself. Tabitha Lawson never got drunk.
She’d been driven by her anger, her determination, her need for revenge, still consumed by that balance sheet in her head. Fueled by the insanity that Royal fostered inside of her heart. And then she showed up in a beautiful country with wonderful food and delicious wine. And then he found her in that bar and—well. Then they had that night.
Good Lord, she would never forget that night.
“Are you feeling better now?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry I freaked out.”
“Should we go inside?”
Tabitha sighed. “I guess we have to?”
He shrugged. That beautiful, maddening Italian gesture that had confounded and seduced non-Italians since the dawn of time: the shoulder coming up, the hand making an arc in the air, his lips going down. It could mean anything and everything and nothing.
Stop thinking, American. Fuhgeddaboutit.
“We will stand in the back. We can leave whenever you wish.”
Power corrupts, and PowerPoint corrupts absolutely.
Tabitha thought her head would explode as the keynote speaker droned on. Her ex-husband was among the sea of heads in front of her. She couldn’t pick him out in the dark. He would not be one who bobbed his head in agreement about every point the speaker made. He would remain still, focused, only an occasional nod in acknowledgment. The future of wine. What a great world we live in. The internet and wine. Millennials and wine. The speakers congratulated themselves and everyone in the room for their excellent taste in careers and general superiority to the rest of the planet. Winemaking and wine drinkers would save the world.
She and Giovanni stood in the back of the room, unwilling to climb over their row a third time. The room was dark, as the current speaker droned through a video about how terroir was changing around the world thanks to global warming. Tabitha kept her eyes forward, trying to focus on the presentation, but it was all a blur. The photos changed—rotting grapevines, withering vineyards, shifting maps, blue icebergs.
She was only aware of his pulsing body heat. He remained still, but the inch of space between their arms crackled with anticipation and expectation. She thought she might explode. She pressed her palms against the wall behind her, leaning against them to keep herself from fidgeting. She could just see him out of the corner of her eye, the light from the speaker’s screen casting a pale glow over his handsome features. His prominent brow slightly furrowed in concentration, a dark shadow over his deep-set eyes. He wasn’t having any trouble focusing. Giovanni was here to work; she was the one who couldn’t keep her mind out of her panties.
He shifted, only an inch, and their upper arms pressed against each other. She pulled her hips away from the wall and dropped her hands so they rested against her body, right next to his. The back of his hand moved against hers. The first time could have been an accident. The second, a coincidence. But he did it a third time and a jolt of electricity shot through Tabitha. He continued stroking her hand, his pinky finger coming up against her wrist in a tiny downward exclamation. Her heart pounded against her ribcage and she suspected the fire inside her was visible for the entire room to see. She kept her eyes on the front of the room, though they’d gone glassy and unfocused in her desire. She was only aware of him next to her. The speaker droned in the background, but all she heard was the even rhythm of Giovanni’s breath; all she sensed was his perfectly still body. Except for his hand, which continued to graze against hers. He drew a line, with his finger, from her palm, up her wrist and inner arm, tickling it gently to the tenderness of her inner elbow before dragging his finger back down to her wrist again. Their palms pressed against each other.
She had been lonely for physical contact, and now her loneliness kindled into a fire that spread through her belly and into her hips, and warm, breathless anticipation. So this is happening, then. Excellent! her body seemed to be saying to her. I didn’t expect an Italian, but … cool.
The speaker was winding down his speech and people started to shift, stretch their bodies, search for the nearest exit route. Soon, Tabitha knew, the lights would come on and everyone would make their way to the doors, decide on a dinner restaurant, grab a drink in the lobby bar, try to act comfortable and friendly while sussing out their competition.
“Just so you know,” she whispered, “that was a one-night thing in Italy. I am not looking for a relationship or any complications. That was once. One time.”
“I agree with you,” he murmured back.
“Don’t think it’s happening again. It’s not. That’s not my style.”
“Nor is it mine. Shall we leave?” Giovanni whispered into her ear. He had not even finished his question before she took his hand and turned to go.
13
The golden light of late evening enveloped his hotel room with a gentle warmth. Giovanni caressed kisses over her neck while Tabitha ran her fingers lazily up and down his sculpted back.
“I’m sorry you missed the end of that speech.”
He propped his elbow on the bed and rested his head on his hand, gazing down at her with a smile. Her heart hammered in her chest.
“I have heard it all before,” he said.
“You don’t want to hear about the future of your business?”
He traced his finger through her hair, circling her ear and gently dragging his touch across her lips. “Your business, too. And it is always the same. We spend a few years chasing the future technology. Then the technology ruins everything, and it becomes fashionable to return to the old ways. Always the same.”
Tabitha laughed. “You sound like an old man.”
His fingers danced across her skin. “Not so old. A little old.” A leetle old. She let his accent wash over her, his voice a gentle wave that moved words around in musical patterns. “My father owned the winery before me. And his father before him. We have seen everything. Nothing changes. Wine is always the same.”
Always the same. She watched his face, watched his fingers dance slowly over her skin. Even after having their bodies smashed against each other for the last two hours, every tiny touch from his finger sent electric sparks through her skin. She turned sideways and pressed her body up against his, tasted the salty warmth of his neck, and then matched his position. Elbow on the bed, head resting on
her hand, their legs intertwined with the sheets and their hips pressed against each other.
“I want you to know I don’t make a habit of this.”
“Talking about wine?”
“Very funny. Going to bed with strange men.”
“I have only met you twice, and both times…” He shot his eyes down the bed, at their naked bodies and entangled limbs.
“No, I know. With you, I guess I do make a habit of this. But normally, I never do this. Have sex.”
“That is a shame.” His fingers had started to drift down along her throat now, dancing along her collarbone. “If I lived near you, I would make sure you do this all the time.”
Tabitha collapsed back on to her pillow and laughed. “Oh my God, you are something else.”
Grinning, Giovanni lay next to her, taking her hand in his. They stared up at the ceiling.
“I do not do this either. Meet with women.”
“Ha!”
“No, it is true.” Tabitha wondered if she could record him talking, just to hear it on nights when she felt lonely. “My family takes all of my time. Papà, Papà, all of the time when I am not working. I have no time for women.”
“Papa? You have-” She started to sit up, but he held up his left hand to stop her.
“Daughters. Two of them.”
“And a… Do the girls have a…” She gulped. “Are you married?”
“No!” He looked affronted. “I do not believe in mistresses. I would not be here with you if I were married.”
“Where is she?”
“In Milan with her new husband.”
“Her new— Oh.” Tabitha bit back the words. “Giovanni. I’m sorry.”
He rubbed his palm over his eyes as if trying to erase something. “For me, it was difficult. But it was much worse for our children.”
Tabitha sighed a long, exhausted breath. She curved her body toward his, wrapping her arm around his chest, and held him.
“And you? You have children?” he asked.
“No children. No husband. Not anymore.”
“What happened to him?”
“He had sex with every living female in Central California while we were married. Maybe even some non-living ones.”
Giovanni snorted. “Bastard.” Tabitha laughed at his pronunciation. Bas-TAR-doh.
“Unfortunately, he’s not off with someone else in Milan. If he were, maybe I could forget about him. He’s here, in this very hotel. Probably fucking a stranger.”
A smile curled his lips. “As are you.”
“Touché. But I never fucked a stranger while I was married. Not even close. It never even crossed my mind. I thought we were in it, you know? I thought we were set for life.”
“Everyone believes this when they get married. That is why you do it, no?”
They remained lost in this thought for a few moments. Finally, Tabitha rolled onto her belly, leaning up on her forearms.
“You make that Prosecco I drank at your enoteca, the last time I let you take my clothes off.”
He shook his head. “I make the Prosecco at my winery, but it is not my enoteca. It belongs to my family. We all own it.”
“I still dream about that Prosecco.”
“You did not like most of what you tasted that night.”
“I know. I was a nightmare. I had been tasting wine nonstop for a week; I was exhausted. Everything changed, all at once. I found out about my husband, and then I moved out and got a new job. That was my first international trip for this new job. I was trying to manage our winery—the one I own with my ex-husband—and still do a good job with this new company. It was all scary, and I was so tired.”
“The wine was your work that day, not your passion.”
“It happens to everyone sometimes. I loved the Prosecco. Is that all you make?”
He looked even more offended by this than he did by her asking if he was married. “No! I make everything. The Prosecco was the only one I gave you because you needed it.”
“What made you think I needed it?”
“I could not bear to see such a beautiful woman with such a sad, angry face.”
“I wasn’t angry—” she began, but then stopped. When she was in Italy, she still hadn’t moved all of her things out of the apartment she shared with Royal. She had to go back to get her passport, which she’d left in the desk drawer. She’d warned Royal that she’d be coming, hoping that he’d have the sense not to be there when she arrived. He’d managed to leave a hint, though. Two coffee cups on the counter by the sink. Everything else in precise, dust-free formation throughout the house. But she’d seen the coffee cups; Royal intended her to see them.
Tabitha had spent the flight to Italy thinking about that second coffee cup, and everything it meant. So much more than a naked picture on a computer screen—more, even, than a tryst in a hotel room. This was someone in her former house, in her former bed. Royal cared enough about this strange person to let her stay the night, to make her coffee. He probably even made her regular coffee, not that disgusting buffalo ball-sweat coffee. Maybe he only saved that for women he married.
And, worst of all, Royal knew that she lived in her sister’s guest room. He lived the high life, slept with whomever he wanted, and served them coffee in mugs that Tabitha herself had picked out. She spent that flight to Italy dwelling on those coffee cups, nestled against each other on the counter, evidence of an intimacy she was not sure she had ever shared with her husband.
It wasn’t until the flight to Italy that the enormity of those coffee cups hit her: everything in her world had turned upside down. What she valued meant nothing anymore; what she thought was unimportant meant everything.
“I was angry,” she said after a long pause. Giovanni did not seem startled to hear her speak. He had been watching her face, and now his eyebrow rose as if she’d finally come to the revelation he was waiting for. “My husband was sleeping with another woman, so I left him. Then, right before I left for Italy, I realized that he was using the things I bought for our life together to enjoy his life with other women. I was sad and angry, and so alone.”
“So you found me.”
She glanced at him and laughed. “As I recall, you found me. You poured me some of that incredible wine. What do you put in that?”
“Amore.”
Tabitha burst out laughing. “Oh, my God. You are so Italian.”
The competition started today with a luncheon and social gathering in the hotel ballroom, and Tabitha’s stomach was suddenly in knots. Now it all began, everything she had been working for, and she was distracted in the early morning light by this Italian. He sat on the bed and reached for her. Her body coiled like a cat, ready to spring at the slightest touch.
“Giovanni, I can’t—” But she stopped talking, and they gazed at each other. He put his fingers in her hair and pulled her in for a long, gentle kiss, his mouth already so familiar to hers.
“Are you nervous?” she asked, allowing her body to nestle into his.
“There is nothing to be nervous about. The wine is made. Either they like it, or they do not.”
“But what about—you know, the prestige? You can sell more of your wine if it has that gold sticker on the front of it. Royal used to say that every sticker was worth another hundred thousand dollars.”
“Perhaps for a winery your size. I have a small winery.”
“But you could grow a little bit. That’s how Royal did it. He won a competition, expanded operations, tried some new varietals. Won more, grew more. Now it’s an empire.”
“I do not need to leave an empire for my girls.”
“Then why are you here?”
“My father wants to expand to the American market before he dies. I want to make him proud, but for me, the wine is an art. Every time I taste it, it is like the first time, and also like a memory. Both at the same time, complex and simple all at once. I want to make wine people love. I want to be an old man someday, surrounded by good wine a
nd family.”
“Despite my freak-out yesterday, I wish I were judging your competition. I’d give your wine the gold medals, every single one. Even if I hadn’t just spent the night in your bed. Which was also gold-medal-worthy, by the way.”
“You will spend tonight in my room again, no?”
“Are you sure you don’t want time to focus on your work, without any distractions?”
“It is the opposite. I want to focus on you, and not to be distracted by the business.”
She shrugged in the Italian gesture she’d learned from him, and he smiled and pulled her into a kiss.
14
She took a deep breath before she stepped into the ballroom, which echoed with the dull din of conversation. The chandelier lights shone on the wine glasses that sparkled on every table. Tabitha skirted the back of the room and tried to scan for familiar faces. She’d been here many times for somm events, bringing the El Zop wine here for competition, even a few times as a judge. She knew a lot of the people in this room. But her nerves were wound so tightly this time that she wasn’t sure she could sit and make conversation with anyone. By tomorrow, she’d be going up against these people—the best sommeliers in the entire world—in a competition that could reinvent her entire life. Her job opportunities would skyrocket; the reputation of El Zop would change forever. She’d have the same award as her mother. However this went, Christmas with the Lawson clan was about to get interesting.
“Roederer L’Ermitage?” A tuxedoed waiter held a silver tray of flutes in front of her, and Tabitha smiled. At an event like this, no waiter would offer her a glass of generic champagne.
“No, thank you,” she said. “Do you think you can get me some water?” The waiter nodded and walked away; Tabitha wondered if she would see him again.
Prosecco Heart Page 10