HOLIDAY IN TUSCANY

Chapter3

Chrihash’s POV

Italy was supposed to be my fresh start. Tuscany, draped in winter’s quiet grace, hills softened under a pale mist, cypress trees standing like dark sentinels against a silvery sky. The streets still smelled of roasting chestnuts and woodsmoke curling from old stone chimneys. I imagined mornings wrapped in the muted light of cold December sun, evenings warmed by simmering broth and the steady hum of radiators in a place that was meant to feel like home.

Instead, I was standing outside a building that looked like it had been abandoned since the Renaissance. My friend Esther’s confidence echoed in my head: “Trust me. This apartment is perfect. You’ll thank me.”

I kicked at the cracked pavement, suitcase thumping behind me. The door had no buzzer, no nameplate, just peeling paint and a note taped crookedly to the frame: “Apartment unavailable. Contact the owner.”

Unavailable? Unavailable. Scam. Cheated. Swindled. Pick your verb—I had just been catfished by my own best friend’s overconfidence.

I dialed her number, fury bubbling beneath the surface.

“Esther,” I said when she picked up. “This…this isn’t what you promised. There’s no apartment. It’s…. It’s a scam.”

“Relax,” she interrupted, calm as a yoga instructor who’d had decades to master the art of inner peace. “I’ll fix it. Just…breathe. There’s a hotel nearby. It’s nice. I promise you’ll be fine. Tuscany, remember? The air, the hills, the wine… and the hot Italian guys. Just relax. I got you.”

Her voice was cheerful, but I could hear the tremor beneath it. She was trying to stay calm for me, but I knew Esther. She never admits when things go sideways.

I ran my hand over my face. “Fine. Hotel then. But next time, you’re not booking anything without me vetting it.”

“There’s no next time,” she laughed. “You’re alive. That’s enough for me right now. Go breathe in that Italian air and heal, Chrihash. You deserve it.”

I hung up, dragging my suitcase toward the cab stand, muttering under my breath. Healing. Easier said than done. My bones ached—not just from travel, but from the weight of disappointments that seemed to follow me like shadows. Every cobblestone felt heavy, every gust of winter wind a reminder that I was still untethered, still adrift.

The taxi ride was silent except for the soft hum of the engine and the distant flutter of pigeons huddling on rooftops. I stared out at the rolling hills, now muted under a veil of winter mist, vineyards stripped bare and stretching like dark, sleeping fields. The sun hung low and pale, casting a cold silver glow over everything. For a moment, I let the anger slip, letting the quiet starkness of the landscape settle into me, letting the crisp winter air brush against whatever was left of my tired soul.

I thought about my apartment in London, small but mine. I thought about the ex-husband I had left behind, the life I had left behind, the plans that had been quietly erased from my future. And I thought about what I really wanted now—something I hadn’t allowed myself to admit in years. A fresh start. Somewhere to belong. Somewhere that wasn’t defined by betrayal, by lies, by people who didn’t see me.

By the time I reached the hotel, my shoulders felt like they were carrying the whole damn day. The receptionist slid my keycard across the counter with a sympathetic smile, and I didn’t even bother returning one—I just dragged my suitcase toward the elevator, its wheels bumping over the tiles like they were tired too.

The shower steamed up the bathroom in seconds, hot water rolling over me until the stiffness in my bones finally loosened. When I stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy robe and damp hair clinging to my cheeks, a soft knock sounded at the door. A tray waited on the side—a ceramic mug dusted with cocoa powder, steam curling up like an invitation.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I cupped the mug in both hands and let its warmth sink in, as if the day hadn’t managed to break me after all. I let the rich chocolate scent mingle with the faint aroma of woodsmoke drifting in from the streets below. Tuscany, I reminded myself, was still beautiful. Even in winter, even on days that felt like betrayal, even when I wanted to hide in my room and never step out again.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with Esther’s face frozen mid-smirk on a video call. Of course.

I sighed and swiped to answer.

“Well, well, look at my international bestie,” she sang, her grin taking up half the screen. “How’s Italy treating my best girl?”

I tilted the phone so she could see only my forehead. “Barely surviving.”

“Liar,” she laughed. “Let me see your face. You didn’t move across continents just to give me forehead updates.”

I dropped the phone back to my lap, and her eyes widened as she took in my robe, damp hair, and general state of collapse.

“Oof. You look like someone chewed you and spat you back out.”

“Long day,” I muttered.

“Mm-hmm. And does this long day include a certain tall, fine Italian man?” Her eyebrows wiggled in ways that should’ve been illegal.

I tried to hide my smile, but she saw it. She always sees everything.

“Esther,” I groaned, “I can’t. I’m exhausted. My legs have given up. My soul has given up.”

“Your soul will resurrect for a hot man and good pasta,” she declared, leaning closer to the screen. “Get up. Put on something cute. Go. Pretend you’re in a movie, Chrihash. Cue the cinematic music!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Esther—”

“Nope. Don’t ‘Esther’ me. You’re going. This is fate, or the universe, or hot-guy hospitality. Either way, you’re not spending your first night in Italy alone with room-service cocoa.”

I stared at the message again, my stomach doing a small, traitorous flip.

She crossed her arms on the screen. “Say it. Say you’re going.”

I groaned into my pillow. “Fine. I’m going.”

“Atta girl! Now show me your closet. We’re choosing your outfit. Something festive, not corpse-chic. You’re in Italy, Chrihash. Sparkle a little!”

I typed: “Sure. Dinner sounds good.”

Sent.

And just like that, the text settled on my chest like a small spark of possibility. My pulse accelerated. A new chapter, a new chance—or maybe just another complication—but one I couldn’t ignore.

I wrapped my arms around myself, staring at the hills melting into the winter haze. Somewhere out there, a man who had been a stranger a few hours ago was going to be part of my evening. I couldn’t stop the curious thrill rising in me, couldn’t stop the nervous hope curling in my chest.

The phone buzzed again. Another message. But this time, I didn’t check it immediately. I let the wind hit my face, letting Tuscany sink in, letting the fresh air remind me of why I came. And maybe, just maybe, letting the future catch up to me without rushing.

As I closed my eyes, savoring the view, the phone buzzed once more. Another message from Alessandro: “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I let out a long breath. Seven o’clock. It wasn’t just a time; it was a thread pulling me toward something unfamiliar. Excitement, nerves, anticipation—they tangled together, inseparable. Tuscany might have been cold, misty, and quiet, but it was alive. And for the first time in months, I felt…alive too.

I tucked the phone under my pillow, wrapped my robe tighter around me, and let a small, rebellious smile curl across my lips.

“Alright, Italy,” I whispered to the hills, “let’s see what you’ve got for me tonight.”