Page 47 of Saved by the CEO

“Wow,” Nico said when stepped back into the kitchen. “Like a proper Tuscan peasant.”

Appreciation lit his eyes, turning her insides warm. She hadn’t done all that much. “Thank you. I figured when in Rome, or in this case Tuscany...”

“You look just like a proper Tuscan gypsy.” And he, a proper Tuscan vintner in his jeans and loose white shirt. Louisa had never seen him look more appealing. He offered his hand. “Shall we?”

The festival itself was to be held in the plaza. Last night Nico and several of his employees had gone into town to set up a quintet of large half barrels around the fountain, and so she assumed that was where they were heading for the parade, as well. To her surprise, however, he turned his truck toward Comparino. “We start at the palazzo,” he told her, “and head into town, recreating the route the farmers took back when the mezzadria system was in place. That’s when the sharecroppers would present the landowners with their share of the harvest. Back then the Bertonellis would have used the grapes to make wine. Today we use a lesser quality crop and put the fruit in the vats for stomping.”

“I can’t believe people still stomp grapes.” Louisa thought the tradition was reserved only for movies and old sitcoms.

“Tourists come from all over the world to see Old World traditions. The least we can do is provide them.”

She bet Nico loved every minute of them, too, lover of tradition that he was. In fact, there was a special kind of glow about him this morning. He looked brighter, more alive. His body hummed with energy, too, more so than usual. Standing by his side, she found it impossible not to let it wash over her, as well.

They turned a corner and drove into a field that had become a makeshift parade ground. In addition to the floats, Louisa spied dozens of townspeople dressed in costume. There were women wearing woolen folk dresses and large straw hats and men dressed as peasant farmers. She spotted musicians and what she guessed were dancers, as well.

“Later on, they’ll demonstrate the trescone,” Nico said. “Everyone present is invited to join in.”

And here she thought the festival was just an excuse to eat and drink.

“Can I ask you a question?” she asked once Nico had parked the truck. “Why is tradition so important to you?” She suspected she already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from him.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I suppose it is because tradition helps define who we are and what we do. There’s a sacred quality to knowing that you’re walking in the footsteps of generations that came before you. Time has passed, but the traditions, the core of who we are, doesn’t change.”

In other words, he loved the consistency. For a man whose entire life had been fraught with chaos, tradition—like Carlos’s vineyard—never let him down. No wonder he’d been so adamant that she lead the parade.

And yet, he was willing to let go of tradition to make her feel more comfortable. Once again, he was rushing to her rescue.

Maybe it was time she returned the favor. “I’ll do it,” she said.

“Do what?”

“I’ll lead the parade.”

If everything else went wrong today, the way Nico’s eyes lit up would be reason enough for her answer. “Are you sure?” he asked her.

“Absolutely.” What were a few miles, right? She could do it. “But only if you’ll walk with me.”

“Are you asking if I’ll be your king?”

Dear Lord, the way he said the sentence... Her insides grew warm. “Don’t be literal,” she said, trying to hide her reaction by making light of the comment. “More like a royal companion who’s there to help me when I screw up.”

Damn if the way he brushed a tendril of hair off her cheek before speaking didn’t turn her inside out. “It would be my pleasure, bella mia.”

* * *

Royal companion wasn’t the right term at all. Nico was a king. Smiling brightly and waving to the crowds, he belonged at the front of the parade far more than Louisa did. The town loved him.

Or maybe Monte Calanetti was just full of love today. The streets were lined with revelers who laughed and cheered them along as they wound their way slowly down the cobblestone streets. Behind them, the costumed men carried baskets of grapes while the women tossed bags of sugared nuts they had stored in the pockets of their aprons. If photographers were there, they were hidden by the throngs of tourists who, it was clear, were only interested in enjoying the day.

“Signorina! Signorina!” A little girl wearing a dress the colors of Italy, ran into the street carrying a crown made from ribbons and roses. “Per voi la Signorina Harrison,” she said, holding it in her hands. “Una corona per la regina.”

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