Page 2 of All is Not Lost

Two

The morning sun spills its golden light over the valley as I peel my eyes open, the remnants of last night's wine throbbing in my head. I push myself up, the crisp mountain air beckoning me to step out onto the balcony of this rustic villa I've claimed as a refuge from the world that has let me down.

With a sigh, I shuffle through the French doors, my hands automatically reaching up to tame my unruly waves. The view here is supposed to be therapeutic, a balm for broken hearts like mine. At least, that’s what the ad said. Below, the valley stretches out in an endless embrace of greenery and wildflowers that sway with the gentle rhythm of the early breeze.

I guess it’s not too bad.

Then, movement catches my attention—a cheerful figure with dark, curly hair standing on the neighboring balcony. He waves at me, a bright smile plastered on his face. He’s wearing just PJ pants and nothing else. I can't help but notice how the morning light plays along his well-built frame, creating a halo around him that seems almost otherworldly.

Wowza.

For a fleeting moment, I'm captivated by the stranger's carefree demeanor. But the reality of my situation rushes back, and I step back, retreating into the shadows of my rented haven. My heart is a fortress, and I'm not ready for visitors, no matter how handsome or cheerful they might appear.

That is not why I’m here.

Inside, the villa feels still, the echoes of my loneliness bouncing off the stone walls. I rummage through the kitchen cabinets, searching for another bottle of wine, something to numb the ache that clings to my soul like ivy. But the cabinets are bare, void of the liquid comfort I so desperately seek. A frustrated huff escapes my lips, and I slam the cabinet door, the sound resonating through the emptiness around me.

"Great," I mutter to myself. "First day in paradise, and I'm already a shipwreck stranded without her rum."

My gaze drifts back toward the balcony, where the cheerful man was. I blink away the unwelcome tears that threaten to spill—no, I won't give in to self-pity. Not here—not in front of a stranger who might be all too eager to play hero to a damsel in distress.

I need space and time, and it seems, more wine to navigate through the tangle of emotions that choke me. I wrap my arms around myself, a makeshift shield against the world. Today, the mountains will have to suffice as my sole companions.

A knock shatters the quiet seclusion of my misery, jolting me from the cocoon of self-pity folded tightly around my shoulders. I freeze, breath held tight in my chest, not ready to face anyone, especially not a stranger. But the knocking persists, rhythmic and impossible to ignore.

"Who could possibly…?" I mutter, trailing off with a sense of dread pooling in my stomach. Hesitantly, I pad across the cool terracotta tiles, each step feeling like a mile. As I near the door, the scent of something sweet and inviting tickles my senses, starkly contrasting the salty bitterness of my tears.

I pull the door open just enough to peek through, blinking rapidly to clear the red-rimmed evidence of my heartache. There he stands, the man from the balcony, holding a plate piled with cookies that look like little golden promises of comfort. He is the picture of unaffected ease, his dark curls tousled perfectly, and his smile so genuine it almost pierces through the fog of my sorrow.

"Hi," I manage, my voice hoarse, offering only a curt nod as an acknowledgment, a silent plea for him to leave me be.

His eyes hold a spark of something kind, something patient, and I can tell he's the type who might see past the walls I've built high and impenetrable. It's disarming, and for a fleeting second, I'm tempted to let him in—not into the villa, but into the hollow space where my laughter used to reside.

But no, I quickly remind myself, I'm here to be alone. With its unexpected kindness and freshly baked cookies, the world outside can wait.

I grip the door with a steadiness I don't feel, my fingers brushing against the cool wood. The threshold is my shield, and I cling to it as though it might anchor me in this storm of emotions.

"Buongiorno," he greets with an accent that rolls each syllable into a melody, "I'm Giovanni Bianchi, your neighbor." His warm smile reaches his eyes, crinkling at the corners in a way that speaks of genuine pleasure.

So. Annoyingly. Handsome.

He offers the plate forward, the cookies a mosaic of chocolate chips and golden dough. "I thought you might enjoy these—a small welcome from me to you."

The aroma wafts toward me, tempting and coaxing me to accept not just the treat but the kindness behind it. It's been so long since anyone's extended such a simple, sweet gesture toward me. But I can't—won't—let down my guard. Not now when every emotion feels like a betrayal, reminding me of what I've lost. Besides, this guy is way too handsome not to be a player. He probably does this to every girl who rents this place.

"Thank you, but no."

My voice is firmer than I expected, revealing none of the chaos roiling inside. "I prefer to be alone. And, um…" I muster a wry half-smile laced with self-deprecation, "…I'm on a liquid diet."

There, let him make what he will of that. Let him think I'm just another villa guest nursing a hangover or chasing some trendy cleanse.

"Only knock if you're bringing wine," I add, hoping my attempt at humor hides the tremor in my words.

His eyebrows lift in amusement, but there's no judgment in his gaze, only a flicker of understanding that's nearly my undoing. Being seen when all I want is to be invisible is a dangerous thing.

I watch for a moment longer, memorizing the way the morning sun catches in his unruly curls, casting a halo around him. He's like a piece of art—beautiful, moving, and utterly out of place in my world of shadows. With a breath, I close the door, leaning back against it as I shut out the light of his presence.

I press my head against the cool wood of the door, willing my pounding heart to still its frantic rhythm. The sunlight seeps around the edges of the curtains, casting a warm glow on the tiles, but the beauty of it is lost on me. Another knock at the door jolts me, and I stiffen, wondering if solitude is too much to ask for in this quaint Italian villa.