Tamed By The Devil Stepbrother
he asked, glancing in the rearview.
“Yeah,” I lied—didn’t feel like explaining. “Meeting someone special.”
He grinned, tapping the wheel. “Ah, amore! Florence is made for it. Good luck, amico.”
The academy loomed ahead—ancient stone walls covered in ivy, gates wrought iron curling like vines in a fairy tale. Students milled in the courtyard, portfolios under arms, paint-stained jeans and animated conversations in a mix of languages. I paid the driver, slung my bag over my shoulder, and stepped inside, heart slamming like a drum. Olive trees rustled in a gentle breeze, casting dappled shadows on the flagstones. And there, perched on a low stone wall under one of those trees, sketchpad in lap—
Bab Populer