For a full second, she stared at her reflection in the car’s glossy black door. Blonde curls that refused to behave no matter how many times she twisted them back into place hung to her shoulders. Blue eyes that were often so dark they were mistaken for brown in the wrong light. And skin that would tan if she ever gave it a chance. All in all, she didn’t look bad for the stress she was under.
The driver opened the door. “Please.”
Elise blew out a breath but didn’t keep him a second longer. She climbed in, adjusted the seatbelt over her shoulder, and checked her emails. Nothing from Stanley. Go figure.
The car wound up on a cliff-side road. Elise allowed herself glimpses of the view as they squeezed past scooters and twisted in hairpin turns that left the sea dropping away on one side and pastel stucco walls with flowering terraces on the other. At one point, the car drifted so close to a truck that Elise dropped her phone onto her lap and gripped the door handle like her life depended on it. And when she wasn’t concerned about losing her life before the age of forty, she tried to utilize the time to go through her notes on the bachelorette. Megan Cooper. Thirty-six-year-old pediatric surgeon from Portland. She had a halo of warm brown curls, hazel eyes that could pass for green in the sunlight. She owned a nineteen-pound tabby cat named Marmalade, who had an Instagram account with more followersthan Elise would ever have. She volunteered at blood drives, ran half-marathons for kids with heart conditions, and baked sourdough from scratch in her spare time. She was loved by all. But then again, weren’t all of them?
Elise’s attention snapped back to the view where stacked houses tumbled down cliffs, and the Tyrrhenian Sea glittered far below like someone had tossed a handful of diamonds into the water. It wasn’t the worst place for this season. In fact, it might actually be one of her favorites. A feeling that was reaffirmed when the car rounded a sharp bend, and Elise caught her first glimpse of the villa. It was an impossibly large building with three main floors, each stepping down the cliff. The walls were butter-colored stucco, and the roof was layered with sun-bleached terracotta tiles. The driveway was a curving ribbon of pale limestone slabs, just wide enough for one car and maybe a scooter to pass. There were century-old olive trees in the garden on the right, leaning toward the cliff, and short stone walls topped with thyme, rosemary, and clusters of tiny white flowers on the left.
The villa itself was wider at the top where the main living spaces were, then narrowed, stepping down in wings to the infinity pool. Terraces jutted out almost haphazardly, each with wrought-iron railings that had pots spilling over with either bougainvillea or juvenile lemon trees. Below the main house, smaller crew houses hugged the hillside, connected by narrow stone staircases.
“We’re here,” the driver said, as if it wasn’t obvious. Elise had read the villa name on the plaque fixed to the wrought-iron gates.Villa Luminosa.She knew they were here and, for the first time since she’d boarded the plane at LAX, she felt something stir in her chest. Optimism. Yes, Elise Mercier was entirely optimistic that this season was going to go by without a single complication.
“Thank you,” she said, suddenly sprightly. She opened the door before the driver could get to her and jumped out, feeling ten pounds lighter. “Yes,” she said, adding a smile. “This season is going to be just fine. Great even. I’m feeling—”
“Hi, Elise,” a woman said from the other side of the car. “I’m Monica. The new host.”
Elise spun around and took in the tallest drink of water she’d ever seen. Monica had at least a head on Vivian. Or maybe it only felt that way because Elise was incredibly short. She barely made five feet four inches.
“Hi,” Elise managed. “It’s nice to meet you.” She had a tiny memory lapse—she blamed the gorgeous villa for blanking her mind—and for a second she thought Vivian was going to show up. But then she remembered Vivian was probably halfway across the world on her honeymoon.
Monica stuck out her hand. Elise took it. Her grip was strong. Her fingers long. Elise liked the look of her wedding band. At least Monica wasn’t going to participate in any inappropriate entanglements this season. She only hoped that the woman’s marriage was a happy one.
“This place is beautiful, isn’t it?” she said. “I was here in Positano probably about five years ago. My best friend got married in Ravello, but the only thing I remember about the wedding was the smell of lemons in the bathroom.” She laughed out loud, and Elise, who didn’t have time for this, smiled as politely as she could. Her immediate task was to make sure everyone was where they were supposed to be.
“Lemons,” she said, her voice tight. “How lovely.”
“Stanley was raving about the location this season. I couldn’t agree more. It’s absolutely gorgeous. I mean, have you been inside the villa yet?”
The obvious answer was no, of course not; she’d just arrived. But Elise was still trying to wrap her head around thevery real possibility that Monica and Stanley were friends. “Do you know him well?”
“We go way back,” Monica said, waving a hand vaguely, like their history involved a thousand stories she didn’t have the time to tell. “I haven’t seen him in years, though. When he called last month and said he needed someone reliable for this season, I said yes so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. My wife thought I was crazy, but even she loves watchingThe Sapphic Match.I was never going to say no.”
Stanley contacting Monica was news to Elise, who thought they’d do a season without a host like they’d done for one of the seasons previously.
Would it be rude if she simply walked away from Monica? Just turned, nodded, and left?No, Elise thought. She was a better person than that. “It’s very nice to have met you,” Elise said, already shifting her weight toward the villa. “But I really must—”
“Speaking of whiplash,” Monica barreled on. “You will not believe who I bumped into at the infinity pool.” She didn’t give Elise time to guess, which frankly was fine considering Elise hated guessing games. “Harper Angel. I can’t believe she’s—.”
“Wait,” Elise said, cutting her off clean. Had she heard her correctly? Or was that static in her ears? “What did you say?”
“Harper Angel,” Monica repeated. “The photographer. She’s won so many awards. I saw her earlier at the pool.” She pointed back toward the house with her thumb. “You know who I’m talking about, right? HerNational Geographicseries about the abandoned nunneries across the Cyclades was phenomenal. The way she captured the light shifting through those stone corridors was haunting.” Then she frowned. “Unless it wasn’t her and I’ve got the wrong person.” She laughed, waving her hand as if she was saying, silly me. But there was nothing silly about it. The mere possibility that Harper Angel wasstanding somewhere in the villa garden nearly gave Elise heart palpitations. It just couldn’t be.
And yet the drop in her stomach told her otherwise as Stanley’s voice echoed in her head.New faces. Reinvention.Had he really replaced Cypress with Harper? Surely not. Surely that would be too much of a coincidence.
A cold rush spread through her chest, like someone had opened her ribcage and poured ice water straight into her body. “I have to go,” she blurted.
And go she did. Except her feet carried her toward the villa and not away from it.
Chapter Three
Harper didn’t believe in second beginnings, or third or fourth. She didn’t even believe new beginnings existed. There was only one beginning, and that was when you were born. Everything after that was a domino effect, which you only pretended you controlled. Which was why she refused to call this a new beginning, even though it was exactly what it felt like. Here she was, crossing the entire sea for a job she wasn’t sure she wanted.
She lifted her camera and trained it on a cluster of potted dwarf citrus trees. The pots were painted with lemon garlands and cobalt swirls. The scene was very cheerful, very Amalfi, and very difficult to frame in a way that didn’t shout postcard. She adjusted her camera anyway, her thumb rolling the dial with a familiarity even her nerves couldn’t shake. She narrowed the aperture, softened the exposure, and coaxed the highlights down.
Too bright. She dialed again, dropping the ISO a few clicks.
Better. Technically. But in reality, nothing could compare with the Tyrrhenian Sea behind her. It stretched wide and long and glittered spectacularly. Small boats traced white stitches across the bay, and the horizon was a razor line. Then there was the villa. Old-world stone wrapped in modern glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the entire south side so that it caught the sun and tossed the light back in shards.