Page 6 of Perfect Match
“Aglianico from the Campania region is a very good wine, but I would like you to try one from my family’s vineyards.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to point to it on the wine list, like it somehow makes it more legitimate. “It’s a very good wine. Is that okay?”
She dips her head to read the menu. “Mmm, it sounds good, and I trust your expertise.”
After a waitress has placed our drinks on the table, she suggests, “Now we just need to agree on the perfect dish to accompany it.”
“That’s easy. A traditional Neapolitan pizza, my cousin’s specialty. Have you tried it yet?”
She grins. “Actually, I have. I was here last night.” Then, with a sideways glance, she adds, “And I’m glad you suggested pizza. I had dreams about the soft, squishy crust and gooey cheese last night. When in Naples …” She tings her glass against the stem of mine, which is suspended midair in my hand, on the way to my mouth.
She’s captivating and exactly the dinner companion I hadn’t known I needed tonight.
“Perfecto!” I say with a chef’s kiss to my fingers. “Emilio’s pizza is the best in all of Napoli.”
“I do have a confession to make.” She chews on her bottom lip as I peer at her over the rim of my glass, waiting. “I took a photo of my pizza last night, and I never photograph food. Please don’t judge me, in case I have to do it again.”
My laugh rumbles up from deep in my chest, an unfamiliar feeling these last couple of weeks. “Emilio’s pizzas are certainly Insta-worthy.” I gesture Emilio over to place her order.
When we’re alone again, I recline back in my chair, wine glass in my hand and my legs stretched out in front of me. “What brings you to Italy, Victoria?”
She tilts her head toward me, and her warm gaze turns glassy. The flicker of sadness in their depths is so fleeting that I wonder if I imagined it.
She blinks a couple of times, like she went somewhere in her head for a second but is back now. “That’s a long story. But the short version is a desire for adventure.”
My eyes narrow in concentration, trying to figure out the woman beside me. She’s already shown me a roller coaster of emotions. One minute joyous, the next heartbreaking melancholy. Red flags would normally be waving, but with her, they don’t even seem to be unfurling. I want the long story. I want to hear every story she wants to tell me.
I’m mesmerized by the movement of her sweet lips, and the tone of her accent is fast becoming my favorite, the blood in my veins heating and rushing south with every syllable.
“I have to admit that I’m intrigued to hear there’s a longer story.”
She tilts her head from side to side, but the casual gesture can’t hide her discomfort. She shakes it off with a wilder toss of her head, and a few more strands of silky dark hair slip free from her bun.
“What about you, Giovanni? What brings you to Italy? I know you have family here, and you mentioned a vineyard, but your American accent tells me you’re not a native.”
It’s a nice deflection away from her. “Please call me Gio; my friends do.”
“Already, we’re friends?” Her brow arches up in question. “It’s not too soon for me to be calling you Gio?” she teases.
The smile I return is the one that women usually find appealing. Not that I expect Victoria would fall so easily for anice smile. And she certainly doesn’t fit into the category of the usual women I date. But that’s what makes her so unique.
With a shrug of my shoulders, I respond, “As you wish, Gio or Giovanni, but I’d say we are becoming friends.”
“Okay, Gio it is. But only if you call me Tori.”
“Tori! I like that. It suits you.”
“You know … I don’t normally accept invitations to dinner with strangers, but Emilio assured me that you were a gentleman.” Her lips tilt up suggestively. “And he might have also mentioned that your family has an olive grove nearby that makes this delicious olive oil.” She points to the bottle on the table that’s labeled Barbieri extra-virgin olive oil.
I bark out a laugh. “You only agreed to join me for dinner on the hopes of learning the family secrets to making the best olive oil.”
She shrugs, but the enigmatic smile she gifts me along with it has me mentally replanning the next couple of days of meetings so I can take her to the family villa to show her the olive groves. I park the thought, knowing it’s too soon to suggest another meeting when we haven’t even eaten yet.
“I’ll pass on your compliments to my brother who runs that part of the company.”
“You have a brother?”
“I have three. Antonio, he’s the one with the olive oil. Then there’s Leonardo; he’s a chef in New York. And finally, the baby of the family, Nicolo, who is based in London.”
“That must have been fun growing up. I just have my sister.”
