Page 123 of Things We Fake
Every breath I took was steeped in rosemary, lavender, sun-warmed earth, and the faint, dreamy sweetness of ripe grapes. The air here was ancient and forgiving, as though it had seen lifetimes come and go and still believed in beauty.
Cam glanced at me, his free hand giving mine a squeeze. “You okay?”
I turned toward him, grinning. “Okay? I think my soul is actually glowing.”
He chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to make my stomach do that now-familiarswoop. “Good. I’d hate to think I’d dragged you all the way to Italy, and you hated it.”
I scoffed, sweeping my gaze across the sun-drenched hills. “This is the opposite of hate. This is—I don’t know—divine intervention? Paradise? Italian Pinterest come to life?”
We shared a quiet laugh, and I caught the flicker of pride in his eyes. Cam had planned every detail of this trip without telling me. All I knew was that he’d booked us two weeks in Tuscany as an engagement gift. What I hadn’t expected was that he’d tracked down my long-lost cousin and found the very farmhouse where my father had grown up—a place I’d only ever heard about in wistful fragments and family lore.
As we came around the final bend, the Morelli farmhouse, perched on a slope, peeked from the folds of the land. The stone walls were pale gold, aged to perfection, and the terracotta roof glowed in the dying light. Vines crept up the façade, and beyond the house, rows of grapevines stretched across the hills in orderly, eternal lines. In front of the gate hung a rustic wooden sign with elegant iron scrollwork:La Casa di Morelli – Agriturismo e Vino.
I blinked, the air catching in my throat. “My God.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I thought you should see it. For real.”
Emotion caught me off guard. My throat tightened as the car rolled to a stop in the gravel driveway. A woman stepped out from the shade of the arched entryway. She was tall, with espresso-dark eyes and a crown of wavy black hair shot through with silver. Her skin glowed with that ageless, olive-toned grace thatonly Italians and vampires seemed to master, and she moved with the easy confidence of someone entirely at home.
She approached the car, a broad smile lighting her beautiful face.
“Cugina!” she called out, her accent curling melodiously around the word. “Welcome to Tuscany.”
Bianca Morelli enveloped me in a hug that left no room for hesitation. Her arms were strong, scented faintly with bergamot and basil, and her laughter bubbled out as though she’d been waiting her whole life for this reunion.
“It’s so strange,” she said, pulling back to look at me. “We’ve never met, and yet I feel I’ve known you forever. You look so much like Uncle Carlo. The same eyes, same smile.” She touched my chin. “The same dimple right there.”
I blinked hard, trying to hold back the lump in my throat. “Papa always said his brother’s daughter was a rebel.”
Bianca winked. “I take that as a compliment.”
Cam had come around to stand beside me, and Bianca gave him a once-over that was pure Italian scrutiny—polite but thorough. She nodded approvingly. “Molto bello. Good jaw. Strong hands. You did well,cugina.”
I laughed, linking my arm with Cam’s. “Trust me, I know.”
She waved us toward the arched stone entryway with the flair of a stage actress. “Come in, come in. The house is yours. And we have much to toast.”
Inside, the farmhouse was a living poem—sun-washed walls, wooden beams, terracotta floors worn smooth by generations of my ancestors, and tall windows flung wide to the warm evening air. It didn’t smell like dust or mildew, the way I’d imagined. It smelled like rosemary and lemon and fresh bread baking in the kitchen.
Bianca led us into a spacious foyer where sunlight spilled through an iron-framed window, casting soft patterns on the tiled floor.
“You renovated this yourself?” I trailed my fingers along the worn banister of the staircase.
She smiled. “Piece by piece. AfterNonnaandNonnopassed away, the house sat empty for years. I couldn’t bear to see it crumble. So I moved back. My friends thought I was insane, leaving Rome for a ruin. But I knew this place still had a heartbeat.”
I turned to Cam, tears pricking my eyes again. “Thank you for this,for her.”
He squeezed my hand. “You’re most welcome. I’m happy to see you happy.”
We followed Bianca through the house, marveling at every detail. The original ceiling beams had been preserved, their dark wood rich with age. On the walls hung black-and-white photographs—my grandparents on their wedding day, my father as a young boy holding a chicken with exaggerated care, a faded image of a village festival with streamers, wine barrels, and too many mustaches.
In the kitchen, a giant copper pot simmered on the stove, sending curls of garlic and tomato-scented steaminto the air. An enormous black cat lay sprawled on a sunbeam near the hearth, eyeing us with mild curiosity.
“That’s Luigi,” Bianca said. “He’s the real owner of the house.”
Luigi blinked once, deeply unimpressed.
Bianca opened the back doors, revealing a stone terrace that overlooked the vineyard. Ivy curled along the banisters, and a rustic table stood under a pergola hung with fairy lights and drying grape leaves. Beyond that, the land stretched out in gentle waves of green and gold.
