I felt the weight of the evening’s responsibility on my shoulders. One misstep could set the club back in terms of reputation and future collaborations. I took a deep breath and tried another number.
“Hey, Gerald. It’s Max from the Prism Society. I know it’s short notice, but I need . . .”
Each call resulted in the same response: apologies, explanations, but ultimately, no wine. As the clock ticked, my anxiety multiplied. I felt cornered. For all my connections and knowledge, I was drawing a blank on how to pull this off.
I closed my eyes momentarily, trying to collect my thoughts. I remembered an old contact who’d once mentioned a private collection of rare wines. It was a long shot, but at this point, any shot was worth taking.
After another round of calls leading to more dead ends, beads of perspiration formed on my brow. The atmospheric lighting of the bar seemed suddenly oppressive, the weight of the evening’s expectations bearing down on me. With a frustrated sigh, I removed my tie, then unbuttoned my shirt, shedding it along with my tight undershirt so I didn’t get them dusty. Maybe, just maybe, there might be something in our own collection I had overlooked.
I glanced upward. The Prism Society had a few high-end bottles tucked away on the higher shelves, reserved for special occasions or specific clientele. Climbing the ladder might be symbolic, I mused, of the uphill battle I was currently facing.
With a deep breath, I began to ascend, hoping against hope I’d find a bottle, or even a combination of bottles, that would save the evening.
FOUR
ISABELLA
The next morning, with the clarity only a good sleep can bring, I likened my attraction to Max to my urge to touch wet paint—tempting, but certainly not wise.
No matter how soft his eyes looked when he talked to me or how his forearm seemed to call me to trace it, Max was a temptation I had to resist.
A new city, a new job, and a new Izzy.
One who was strong, independent, and not swayed by handsome bartenders who smelled like woodsmoke and dreams.
I was here for a fresh start.
Besides, I had decided at the last brunch I attended with three of my girlfriends, all now engaged, settling down wasn’t for me.
Especially after Nikos.
As I stood in the space that had once been my childhood bedroom, the silence around me was a stark contrast to the bustling life I had known. The truth was, I had always been a free spirit, a seeker of the next thrill, the next story to tell. I was the epitome of adventure, my heart pumping for new experiences and new people, especially if that new person brought along the promise of excitement. Yet deep down, I realized the adrenaline rush was a temporary fix, not the foundation of a life shared with someone I could truly call a partner.
I had always been the protagonist in my own romantic saga, weaving in and out of whirlwind escapades that promised the rush of love at first sight. Yet, the idea of love as an enduring presence, a steady flame rather than a firework, was something I’d not truly entertained. My rendezvous across the globe had been chapters of excitement, not lifelong commitments. And Nikos, with his dreams of a family life abroad, had been yet another adventure I was almost ready to embark upon.
But the quiet confession in Nikos’s farewell had struck a chord. I realized it wasn’t about missing him or our could-have-been life. It was about finding myself. The realization dawned that I didn’t need to be swept off my feet. I needed to land. To settle not for less, but for real—for the real me to emerge and decide what my next chapter would be, for myself and no one else. I was not looking for Prince Charming. I was searching for my place in the world. The adventure would always call me, but now I sought an adventure that could lead to a homecoming, to a place and a person where my heart could finally rest.
Promises to myself now took a different shape: no more mistaking excitement for depth; no more conflating fleeting passion with enduring affection. The brush of fingers, once electrifying, now spoke of momentary pleasure, not lifelong companionship
When the conversation I had long evaded surfaced, the truth in his words was undeniable. “Settling down isn’t you, Iz,” he’d said, not with malice but with a clarity I had shielded myself from. “We both knew where this was headed from day one; we just let it go on a little longer than we should have.”
He was right. Not because I feared commitment but because my spirit hadn’t yet found the peace needed to commit. Nikos had seen the horizon of our ending before I had, not because our love was flawed, but because our paths were always meant to diverge. His vision of the future was clear, and mine—a mosaic of experiences—was still arranging itself into a picture I could call home.
Luckily the skies outside had also cleared, and as I stepped out onto the sidewalk and slid into the waiting town car, I felt confident in my refined direction. The sun was shining, my black satin button-up didn’t forecast my nipples to the world, and I was actually excited about my new job.
My confidence quickly shifted to annoyance as I took in, what was apparently going to be a routine sighting, Max high on the bar ladder, his back muscles flexing as he reached above him. Max wasn’t thick and buff like someone who lived at the gym, but he was fit. It looked like he was the type of person who enjoyed going for a hike or a run but also enjoyed saying yes to takeout and dessert. He had the body of a man who didn’t make you feel insecure about yourself. But these were details I did not need to be noticing.
“Why do you not have a shirt on?” were the first words out of my mouth.
“Hi, good morning.” Max’s face did this stupid lopsided grin making one single dimple pop up on his cheek.
“It’s not morning.” I slid my phone out of the side pocket of my bag—I’d given my Celine time to dry out and had switched to my black Prada—and tapped the screen. “It’s 1:53 in the afternoon.”
“It’s the first time I’ve seen you today, and it feels weird to tell you good afternoon when I haven’t gotten to tell you good morning.” Max sat the wine bottle on the bar top and then turned to grip the ladder to make another journey up to the top.
“What are you doing anyways?” I had to ask the question to justify why I stayed rooted to my spot, eyes cascading up as Max climbed the rungs. God, his ass looked good in those pants.
“I was expecting a shipment today for a private tasting I’m doing tonight but it never showed. I wondered if the Château Margaux would be a good substitute for what I had originally planned,” Max said as he reached the top.
