LOVE AT ITS PEAK

CHAPTER 2: THE SKATCH THAT SPOKE

he following morning, Isabella sat at her favorite café on Via della Pace, a narrow cobblestone street where ivy climbed along pastel-colored walls. She had ordered her usual cappuccino and a cornetto, but her mind was far from breakfast.

Instead, she flipped through her sketchbook, stopping at the page Alejandro had seen. His words echoed in her mind: “You see beauty where others pass too quickly.”

It wasn’t just the compliment—it was how he said it, as if he had understood her, a stranger, in a single glance.

She shook her head, scolding herself. “Isabella, you don’t even know him,” she whispered under her breath. She had no space for distractions; her dream of becoming a recognized artist demanded her full attention. And yet, here she was, replaying the brief encounter in her mind like a favorite song.

A soft breeze carried laughter from a nearby table. Tourists chattered in broken Italian, snapping photos of the café’s flower-filled balcony. But Isabella’s thoughts drifted back to that stranger with the Spanish accent.

As if summoned by her imagination, a shadow fell across her sketchbook.

“Do you always draw in cafés, Isabella Romano?”

Her head snapped up. Alejandro stood there, holding his own cup of espresso. His smile was unassuming, but his eyes—those golden-brown eyes—seemed amused at her surprise.

“You… again?” Isabella stammered. “Do you follow every artist you bump into?”

Alejandro chuckled, pulling out the chair across from her without waiting for an invitation. “Only the ones who leave me curious.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow but said nothing, flipping her sketchbook shut. The café’s hum continued around them, yet their little table seemed oddly secluded, like the world had narrowed down to just two strangers.

“You’re Spanish?” she asked, finally breaking the silence.

“Sí. From Barcelona,” he replied, sipping his espresso. “And you, Roman by birth?”

“Roman by blood, yes. But my heart belongs to the canvas more than to the city,” she admitted, surprising herself with the honesty.

Alejandro leaned forward slightly. “Then you carry Rome with you in your art. I saw it yesterday. You make stone fountains look alive.”

Heat crept into Isabella’s cheeks. “Why do you keep talking about my sketches? They’re not that special.”

“They are,” Alejandro said firmly, with the kind of certainty that made her heartbeat stumble. “And so is the artist.”

For a moment, Isabella forgot to breathe. Nobody had ever looked at her the way he did—like she was more than what she allowed people to see.

She quickly changed the subject. “And what about you, Señor Castillo? What brings you to Rome?”

Alejandro’s smile dimmed slightly, as if she had brushed against a secret. “Business,” he said simply, his tone leaving little room for questions. But then he added, “And perhaps… fate.”

Before Isabella could reply, her friend Lucia called her name from across the street. “Bella! Vieni qui!”

Isabella stood, flustered. “I should go.”

Alejandro rose too, but this time he didn’t let her slip away so easily. He pulled a small card from his pocket and placed it on her sketchbook.

“Meet me tomorrow evening,” he said softly, “by the Spanish Steps. If you don’t come, I’ll know our paths were only meant to cross twice.”

Then, with a polite bow of his head, he walked away, leaving Isabella staring at the card in disbelief.

Her fingers traced the name printed in elegant script:

Alejandro Castillo.

And beneath it, a single line:

“Some encounters are not accidents.”