Crooked Lease

You stare at the headline on your phone screen, the words blurring. "Pesaresi Vineyards: A Legacy of Lies?" Your knuckles whiten around the device. The fermentation shed is quiet, just the low hum of the tanks, the thick scent of yeast and crushed grapes hanging in the still air. Your sister Yvonne’s voice cuts through.

"They’re vultures, Rico," she says, pacing the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the slant of afternoon light from the high windows. "That reporter twisted Uncle Giacomo’s tax issues into a full-blown family conspiracy. Sales inquiries have dropped fifty percent since this morning. We need positive press, fast."

You run a hand through your hair, your callouses catching. The land, your family’s land, feels fragile beneath your boots. "What do you suggest? A statement? A tour?"

Yvonne stops, faces you. "Bigger. We need a distraction. Something warm. Human." She pauses. "I called Tito Cirelli."

Your head snaps up. "The TV chef? The one who flambés everything in sight? Yvonne, be serious."

"I am," she says, her voice firm. "He’s got a huge following, he’s charming, and crucially, he owes me a favor from that charity auction fiasco last year. He’s willing to play your boyfriend. Publicly. For a few weeks, just until this blows over."

The idea is absurd. You, Rico Pesaresi, who spends more time talking to vines than people, pretending with a man whose entire life is a performance. The scent of fermenting grapes feels suddenly cloying. "No."

"Yes," Yvonne insists. "Think of Nonna. Think of Papa’s heartbreak if we lose this place. Tito’s already on his way. He’ll be here in an hour. Just… hear him out."

The next sixty minutes are a special kind of hell. You try to lose yourself in checking the Brix levels in Tank 7, the familiar routine a poor salve. When you hear tires on the gravel drive, your stomach clenches.

Tito Cirelli steps into the fermentation shed like he’s walking onto a stage. He’s vibrant, even in casual clothes – a deep blue shirt that makes his skin glow, dark jeans. He smells of citrus and something herbal, basil maybe. His smile is wide, practiced, but his eyes are sharp, assessing.

"Rico," he says, his voice bright, quick, like a struck match. "Yvonne’s told me about the… situation. I’m so sorry. And happy to help."

His handshake is firm, brief. You grunt a greeting, gesturing towards the small, scarred wooden table in the corner where you sometimes eat lunch. "Let’s get this over with."

Yvonne hovers, then mumbles an excuse about paperwork, leaving you alone with him. The silence stretches, filled only by the gurgling tanks. Tito pulls out a chair, the legs scraping on concrete. "Right," he says, pulling out his phone. "Ground rules. Essential for these things."

You sit opposite him, the scent of crushed grapes and his citrus cologne an odd mix. "Rule one," you say, your voice a low rumble, like distant thunder. "This is for the cameras only. When we’re private, we’re civil, but it’s not… real."

Tito nods, typing. "Understood. Public Affection Level: High. Private: Strictly Professional. Got it." He looks up. "Rule two: I handle the press. The charm offensive. You just… try to look besotted. Or at least, not like you want to strangle me."

You almost smile at that. Almost. "Rule three: My family is off-limits for your… charm. This is about the vineyard, not my personal life."

"Agreed," Tito says, surprisingly serious for a moment. "Rule four: We need a believable 'how we met' story. Something romantic but plausible."

You think for a moment. "You visited the vineyard last spring for a private tour. We… connected."

Tito beams. "Perfect. I can work with that. I’ll leak it to a friendly blogger." He types furiously. "Rule five: Exclusivity for the duration. No other… entanglements. For plausibility."

You nod. The air feels thick, not just with yeast, but with the weight of the charade. "Rule six," you add, your gaze steady on his. "When this is over, we go our separate ways. Clean break. No mess."

Tito meets your eyes, his usual sparkle momentarily banked. "Agreed. Six rules." He holds out his hand again. "Partners in crime, then?"

You hesitate, the callouses on your palm rough against his smoother skin. The vineyard, Nonna’s worried face, the damning headline – they flash through your mind. You clasp his hand. "Partners."

The charity gala is a blur of too-bright lights and too-loud chatter. You stand stiffly beside Tito, your new suit feeling like a costume. He, of course, looks effortlessly elegant, a splash of vibrant color against the sea of black tuxedos. His hand rests lightly on the small of your back, a constant, warm pressure.

"Relax," he murmurs, his voice a low hum only you can hear, a stark contrast to his usual bright tone. "You look like you’re facing a firing squad, not a room full of potential wine buyers." He leans in closer, his breath heating your ear. "Remember rule two? Besotted. Or at least, not homicidal."

You try to force your shoulders down from around your ears. A photographer approaches, his camera already raised. Tito turns you towards him, his arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. "Smile, *amore*," he says, his own grin wide and dazzling. You manage something that feels more like a grimace. The flash pops, leaving starbursts in your vision.

Later, he coaches you in a quiet corner near potted ferns that smell of damp earth. "It’s about the little touches," he explains, his fingers skimming lightly down your arm, leaving a trail of warmth. "Not a performance, just… ease. Like this." He takes your hand, weaving his fingers through yours. His palm is smooth, uncalloused, a stark contrast to your own rough skin. "See? Natural."

It feels anything but. Yet, over the next few hours, as he guides you through introductions, his touch becomes less startling. A hand on your elbow to steer you, his shoulder brushing yours as he leans in to hear you over the din. The paparazzi eat it up. "Pesaresi Finds Love!" one headline blares the next day, the picture showing you and Tito, heads bent close, his hand resting possessively on your hip. It looks intimate, real. A strange sensation, seeing yourself reflected that way.

The food festival a week later is Tito’s domain. He’s in his element, vibrant and kinetic amidst the sizzle of pans and the rich scent of roasting meats. You stick close, feeling like a shadow trailing a sunbeam. He hands you samples – a bite of spicy sausage, a sliver of sharp cheese, a sip of complex red wine from a rival vineyard that makes you raise an eyebrow. "Good, isn't it?" he says, noticing your expression. "Not as good as yours, of course."

The praise is practiced, part of the script, yet it lands warmer than expected. He pulls you in for a quick kiss on the cheek after you manage to compliment a particularly fiery chili oil without coughing. The crowd nearby sighs audibly. Later, walking between stalls, his hand finds yours again, his thumb grazing idly over your knuckles. This time, you don’t flinch. The gesture feels almost… comfortable. A flicker of something unfamiliar sparks in your chest, quickly banked.

"Cirelli Charms Pesaresi Off The Vineyard!" the blogs declare, with pictures of you both laughing over a shared plate of arancini, your heads close, his arm slung casually over your shoulders. The positive press, Yvonne reports, is doing its job. Inquiries are picking up. The vultures are circling a different story.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a shiny festival banner – your posture less rigid, a trace of something other than grim determination around your mouth. Tito catches your look. "See?" he says, bumping your shoulder with his. "Told you you’d get the hang of it. Not so bad, playing happy couple?"

You grunt, but it’s softer this time. The scent of him, citrus and herbs, is becoming less an intrusion and more a familiar note in the air. The practiced touches are starting to feel less like a chore, more like… practice for something else. The thought unsettles you, but you don’t pull away.

The following week is a blur of smaller events, local tastings, and carefully curated social media posts. The constant performance leaves you brittle, your edges frayed. One late night, after a particularly grueling sponsor dinner where you’d smiled until your cheeks ached, you find yourself alone in the large, quiet kitchen of the main house. The catering staff has gone, leaving behind spotless counters and the lingering scent of roasted garlic and rosemary. Your tie hangs loose, your top button undone.

You’re staring blankly into the industrial refrigerator, the cool air washing over you, when you hear footsteps. Tito walks in, his energy banked, his usually vibrant shirt replaced by a faded band t-shirt. He looks… tired. Less like a polished TV personality, more like a man.