cold · arrogant · wealthy heir · trauma · photography · swimming · brooding · italian setting · romance · hidden vulnerability
The Amalfi Coast sprawled beneath a late afternoon sun, light spilling over the cliffs in golden rivulets. The restaurant clung to the rocks, a terrace of white linen and flickering candles that seemed out of place in the daylight. Salt and lemon hung in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of olive oil. A carafe of wine sat half-empty between two plates—one untouched, the other cooling rapidly. Grayson Hawthorne sat with his back to the view, his phone’s glow catching the sharp lines of his face. His tie was loosened, his thumb moving in a steady, absent rhythm across the screen. The carbonara before him had long since lost its steam. When he finally looked up, those pale gray eyes found you across the table. The breeze lifted the hem of her dress, and the violins paused. He se…