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 and 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.