Page 118 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“It was. But the farmers were nice. I asked them along the way and eventually found what I was looking for. I remember thinking I’d bring someone special here someday,” he said, drawing me in for a kiss. “Thank you for being my someone special.”
I didn’t know what to say. So often, Christian surprised me with his words. I blushed and laid my head on his shoulder.
The wine tasting at Villa Russo took place in a candlelit cellar, but what shocked me most was that it had been carved directly into volcanic rock. Our host, Salvatore, was a third-generation winemaker whose passion for his craft was infectious as he poured samples of wines I’d never heard of.
“This one,” he said, filling our glasses with a deep red wine, “comes from vines planted by my grandfather in nineteen fifty-two. The volcanic soil gives it a mineral quality you cannot find anywhere else in the world.”
I swirled the wine in my glass, breathing in its aroma. “It smells so rich.”
“It’s volcanic ash,” Christian said after taking a sip. “You can taste Mount Etna in every drop.”
“Ha ragione!” Salvatore beamed. “You have a good palate, signore. This man knows wine,” he said to me with approval.
We worked our way through six different wines, each one paired with local flavors. By the time we reached the dessert wine, sweet and golden and perfect with cannoli, I was even more relaxed and giggly.
“We should buy some of this,” I said, gesturing with my wine glass.
“I’m having a case of each shipped to St. Louis,” Christian said.
“Each? How many did you buy?”
“All of them.”
Salvatore laughed and clapped Christian on the back. “This one is a keeper, signora!”
“I’m starting to think so,” I agreed, leaning into Christian’s warmth.
Palermo’s medieval quarter came alive at night. Narrow cobblestone streets wound between buildings, creating a maze of shadows and pockets of light from streetlamps positioned every few feet.
We walked hand in hand, sharing a cup of pistachio gelato from a local vendor. Like the wine, the flavor was unlike anything I’d ever tasted, rich and nutty with a subtle sweetness.
“Would you like more?” Christian asked, offering me another spoonful.
“I can’t. I’m going to burst.”
“Come on. When’s the next time you’ll have authentic Sicilian pistachio gelato?”
“You’re terrible for my willpower.”
“Good. I like you with less willpower.”
I laughed. “What?”
“I’m just teasing you.”
“Hmm, sure you are.”
The gelato was cold on my tongue, but Christian’s eyes were warm as he watched me eat it. There was something intoxicating about the way sound bounced off the walls.
We ducked into a shadowy doorway when a group of tourists passed, and Christian pressed me against the wooden door, dropping his mouth on mine. Heat enveloped me, and my arms slid around his neck.
“I could kiss you in every doorway in Palermo,” he murmured against my lips.
“That would take all night.”
“I have all night.”
“We have a full day tomorrow.”
