Tuscany, With Love
Sarah wasn't used to silence quite this golden. The kind that stretched across sunflower fields like a lullaby. Back home in Surrey, her days were booked solid with responsibilities, charity brunches, and the invisible weight of her title: Lady Sarah Worthington . Elegant? Yes. Free? Never quite. But in the Italian countryside, everything shifted. The air smelled like lavender and baked earth, and time didn’t tick—it strolled. She was sketching—well, trying to—on the worn stone steps of a vineyard near San Gimignano when he nearly tripped over her watercolours. “Whoa! I swear I wasn’t aiming for your masterpiece,” came the voice, rich and amused. She looked up. Tall. Sun-streaked hair. An American accent dipped in charm. Khaki shorts that had clearly seen better adventures. And those smile lines—laugh-worn and well-earned—framing kind blue eyes. “Brad,” he said, offering a hand. “Sarah.” She hesitated, then added with a grin, “No on...