THE VINEYARD OWNER
985 Words
Chapter Three – The Vineyard Owner
Amanda woke early the next morning, sunlight pouring through the shutters of her room. For a moment, she forgot where she was. No sirens, no horns, no rumble of the subway—only birdsong, the rustle of leaves, and the faint chime of church bells in the valley below.
She dressed quickly, tying her hair back in a neat twist, and tucked her planner under her arm. Today would be her first official walk-through of the vineyard, and she intended to treat it with the same professionalism she brought to any venue.
But when she stepped out into the courtyard, the air already warming under the Tuscan sun, Amanda felt her carefully constructed walls begin to wobble. The scent of rosemary drifted from a garden near the villa. Grapevines stretched endlessly down the hills, their leaves shimmering like emeralds. It was disarming, this beauty—too much, almost.
She squared her shoulders. Work first. Always work first.
“Signorina Taylor?” a voice called.
Amanda turned. A man approached from the vineyard rows, tall and broad-shouldered, his stride unhurried. His shirt was simple linen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a hint of sun darkening his skin. Dark hair curled slightly at his collar, and his eyes—deep brown, steady—seemed to take her in all at once.
He stopped a few steps away, his presence filling the courtyard with quiet authority.
“I am Lorenzo Moretti,” he said.
Amanda extended her hand, professional smile firmly in place. “Amanda Taylor. Thank you for hosting me.”
His handshake was firm, calloused from work. Not the smooth grasp of a client or executive, but the hand of someone who lived his labor. It surprised her more than it should have.
“You came a long way,” Lorenzo said. His voice was low, touched with an accent that curled around the words.
“Yes. New York,” Amanda replied. “I’ll be organizing the wedding here. I like to start with a thorough site evaluation.”
His brow lifted slightly, as though amused by her efficiency. “You want to see the land.”
“The estate,” she corrected, though something about the word land felt more honest.
He gestured for her to follow. “Then we walk.”
They moved through the vineyards together. The sun climbed higher, warming the earth. Amanda scribbled notes furiously in her planner as Lorenzo pointed out sections of the estate: the chapel at the edge of the hill, the terrace that overlooked the valley, the great hall inside the villa where generations of Morettis had celebrated harvests.
“This,” Lorenzo said, pausing beside a centuries-old olive tree, “is where my grandparents were married.”
Amanda looked up at the branches, silver-green and ancient, twisting toward the sky. “It’s beautiful,” she admitted.
He studied her, as though measuring the sincerity of her words.
“You are very… precise,” Lorenzo said finally.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You look at the walls, the tables, the number of chairs. You write and write. But do you see the place?”
Amanda bristled. “Of course I see it. That’s why I’m writing.”
He shook his head slightly. “No. You measure. But do you feel?”
His words unsettled her. No one had ever challenged her like that—not in her work, not in her life. Perfection came from control, from details managed, crises avoided. Feelings were irrelevant.
And yet, standing here, with sunlight dappling through the olive leaves and the scent of grapes all around, Amanda couldn’t deny that she felt something.
She snapped her notebook shut. “With respect, Signor Moretti, feelings don’t plan weddings. Hard work and organization do.”
His lips curved, not quite a smile, but close. “Perhaps. But without feeling, a wedding is only chairs and tables.”
Amanda’s pulse jumped, and she hated that it did. She turned away, determined to focus. “I’ll need access to the kitchens, the cellars, and the guest rooms to evaluate capacity. I’ll also need to coordinate with local vendors—florists, musicians, transportation services.”
“You will have what you need,” Lorenzo said simply.
They continued in silence for a while, the vineyard stretching around them. Amanda wrote, and Lorenzo walked beside her, unhurried, as though the land answered more to his pace than hers.
Finally, as they circled back toward the villa, Lorenzo spoke again. “You are far from home.”
Amanda stiffened. “Yes. But it’s work. I travel for work sometimes.”
“Still,” he said, “it is not easy to leave one’s place. To belong somewhere else.”
The words landed heavier than she expected. For a moment, Amanda thought of New York—its noise, its pressure, its endless demand for her perfection. And she wondered, fleetingly, if she had ever truly belonged there.
She pushed the thought away. “I adapt quickly,” she said.
Lorenzo nodded, though his eyes lingered on her as if he saw more than she wanted to reveal.
When they reached the villa steps, he paused. “You will need wine for your wedding. Tonight, come to the cellar. I will show you what we make here.”
Amanda hesitated. Something in his tone felt like more than an invitation. But his gaze was steady, waiting.
“Fine,” she said, sliding her notebook under her arm. “The cellar at seven.”
Lorenzo inclined his head. “At seven.”
As Amanda climbed the villa stairs, her heart unexpectedly quickened. She told herself it was nothing—just part of her job, just another task.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that this vineyard, and this man, were going to challenge her in ways no planner’s notebook could prepare her for.
- Writer
