Paris Is Always a Good Idea - Jenn McKinlay Page 0,120

friends with and had it out with him. No one heard what was said, but as soon as Michelle had most of the cake out of her hair, she was told to pack up her office, and then she was escorted from the building.”

“That is some primo, grade A, juicy gossip,” I said. “I can’t believe Julia didn’t tell me when I checked in yesterday.”

“I asked her not to, since I knew I’d be seeing you here and all,” he said.

“Oh.” And just like that, things felt awkward.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I finished my coffee and pretended to be watching the comings and goings of the vineyard even though I was hyperaware of the man across the table. I was so tuned into him I felt as if I could pick out his heartbeat in a room full of ticking clocks.

I wondered if he felt the same. I glanced at his face to find him looking at me, but when our gazes met, he glanced away, and I knew he was struggling to find his footing with us, too. We were colleagues, we were friends, and we’d had a brief flirtation. Things were jumbled and messy, but I knew if I kept the boundaries in place, we’d be able to get our bearings. And after Severin signed the papers, we’d go our separate ways. We could do this.

If I could have back that night in Paris . . . No, regardless of how things were now, I didn’t want to give up the memory of kissing him on top of the Eiffel Tower. When I was old and in my rocking chair, I was going to take out the memory of that evening in his arms, hum “La vie en rose,” and smile.

We finished our coffee and I stood, gathering the plates to bring them into the kitchen. Jason helped, carrying the coffeepot and a tray of leftover food. I put the food away, but Marcellino had a housekeeper, who’d made it pointedly clear that tidying up was her job and I wasn’t to do it. I had to admit, it was an unexpected perk to castle life that given a chance, I could really get used to.

“Come on—I’ll show you the winery from vine to bottle,” I said.

Together we wound our way down the spiral staircase and out the door that was marked Private. I guided Jason through a side door and along a dirt path that led into the heart of the vineyard, where the grapevines were just beginning to leaf. The thick vines twisted their way up out of the rich earth as if reaching for the sun, air, and rain that they knew awaited them.

Jason paused by one of the plants. He studied the leaves and then looked out over the rolling hills, where lines of vines spread all the way to the horizon. “That’s a lot of grapes.”

I smiled. “To be labeled a Chianti, the wine has to consist of at least eighty percent Sangiovese grapes.”

“Sangiovese?” he asked. “Not exactly the Cabernet Sauvignon and Chardonnay of Napa, is it?”

“No. The name comes from the Latin sanguis Jovis, which means ‘the blood of Jupiter.’”

He looked at me. “Dang, Martin, you are full of wine trivia.”

“I did give tours here for several months during my year abroad,” I said. “I learned a lot.”

“Enough to make it your life?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

When I glanced at his face, his expression was blank. If he was holding out hope for us in any way, I didn’t want to hurt him—truly, I didn’t. I’d spent most of the previous night tossing and turning, thinking about building a life in Italy if the opportunity presented itself, and honestly, I could almost see it. It was grainy and fuzzy, like an old film reel, but maybe after all this time, this was where I belonged, with Marcellino.

The truth was, he was kind, funny, smart, and, frankly, hot, and when I was with him, I felt glimmers of the old Chelsea, the young Chelsea, the Chelsea who didn’t know the pain of great loss, and I liked it. I liked her, and I wasn’t ready to give up on her just yet.

* * *

• • • •

THE SUN WAS warm, hot even, so Jason and I took shelter in the olive grove. We walked down the center line of trees, and other than the birds, we were completely alone. Jason paused to take in the towering expanse of the branches above