The Tuscan sun was a heavy, golden weight on Karlie Rossi's shoulders, smelling of baked earth, wild rosemary, and ripening citrus. It was exactly what she had prayed for—a world away from the frantic sketches, the screaming of industrial sewing machines, and the jagged, fragile egos of the Milan fashion scene. Here, the only deadline was the slow arc of the sun toward the horizon, and the only "trend" was whatever deep shade of purple the grapes were turning in the neighboring vineyard.
"Careful, Karlie! That crate is heavier than your ambition and twice as stubborn!" her Aunt Linda called out from the shaded porch, fanning herself rhythmically with a folded newspaper.
Karlie laughed, the sound bright and honest, a stark contrast to the hollow, rehearsed laughter she used at gallery openings. She adjusted her grip on the splintering wooden box, which was piled dangerously high with oversized, aromatic lemons. "I've got it, Zia! Just a few more steps to the truck. My ambition is doing just fine, but these lemons are definitely trying to stage a rebellion!"
She took a sharp turn around the ancient stone wall of the villa, her eyes squinting against the blinding glare of the afternoon light. The world was a blur of terracotta and green, and she was too focused on her balance to notice the shift in the atmosphere. She didn't see the shadow stretching across the dusty path—a long, dark silhouette that didn't belong to a tree or a stone.
Thud.
The impact was jarring. It wasn't like hitting a person; it was like walking full-tilt into a marble pillar. The crate slipped from her sweaty palms. Karlie gasped, her heart leaping into her throat as a dozen lemons tumbled to the parched ground, rolling like yellow marbles across the gravel.
"Damn it," she hissed, dropping to her knees immediately to scramble after the fruit. These were the prize of the harvest, and every bruise meant a lower price at the market. "I am so sorry, I wasn't looking where I—"
"Clearly."
The voice was a low, resonant vibration that seemed to cut through the humid, heavy afternoon air like a blade of ice. It was a voice that didn't belong in a sleepy village; it belonged in a boardroom where life-altering decisions were made with a single word.
Karlie froze, her hand hovering over a particularly large lemon. She looked up, and the apology died in her throat, replaced by a sudden, suffocating silence.
Standing over her was a man who looked like he had been edited into the countryside by some cosmic mistake. He was tall—impossibly tall—with the lethal, high cheekbones of a dynasty prince and a jawline so sharp it belonged in a gallery of high-renaissance sculpture. His skin was the color of fresh cream, flawless and pale, and his eyes—obsidian and narrowed—were currently tracking her frantic movements with a chilling, detached intensity.
He wasn't wearing one of the stiff suits she associated with power. He wore a white linen shirt, the top buttons undone, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with lean, functional muscle. Yet, even standing in the middle of a dirt path in a remote village, he radiated a terrifying, predatory kind of power. He looked like a king who had wandered into a peasant's garden and found it lacking.
"Are you finished?" he asked. His Italian was perfect—accentless and elegant—but clipped with a cold efficiency that made her feel like a specimen under a microscope.
Karlie felt a flush of heat creep up her neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the Tuscan sun. He hadn't reached down to help. He hadn't even offered a hand to steady her. He just stood there, a handsome, frozen statue, watching her struggle in the dirt as if her misfortune were a mildly interesting play.
"You could help, you know," she snapped, her embarrassment turning into a sudden, jagged spark of irritation. "Instead of just standing there looking like a very expensive, very judgmental gargoyle."
One of his dark, sculpted eyebrows drifted upward. For a brief second, the icy stillness in his obsidian eyes flickered—as if a match had been struck in a dark, empty room. The air between them suddenly felt charged, humming with a static electricity that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up.
"I don't remember asking for your opinion on my appearance," he said, his voice dropping an octave into a dark, velvet rasp. He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her whole, the scent of expensive sandalwood and cold air-conditioning clinging to him. "And you're missing a lemon. It's behind your left heel."
He didn't move to grab it. He simply watched her, his gaze heavy and unreadable, as the first spark of something dangerous caught fire in the dust between them. Slowly, with a grace that felt almost mechanical, he walked past her. He didn't look back. His cold aura followed him like a physical weight as he climbed into a sleek, black SUV parked near the gate. The engine roared to life—a low, expensive growl—and he drove away, leaving Karlie stunned on the ground.
Her mind was still fixed on those eyes—not obsidian, she realized now, but a blue so dark they appeared black until the light hit them.
After what felt like an eternity, she scrambled to her feet, her heart still hammering against her ribs. "Damn it, I'm going to be late," she muttered, frantically shoving the remaining lemons back into the crate. "All thanks to some good-looking, grumpy man who probably thinks he owns the sun itself."
She paused, a stray thought hitting her like a lightning bolt. But... he was handsome. Infuriatingly handsome.
"Seriously, Karlie?" her subconscious mocked. "A man treats you like a footstool and you're thinking about his cheekbones?"
She did a final count of the fruit and realized the lemon he had pointed out—the one behind her heel—was gone. She searched the gravel, the tall grass, and even under the stone wall, but it had vanished. It was as if he had taken the fruit—and her peace of mind—with him.
Karlie's footsteps quickened as she weaved through the narrow, winding village streets, but her mind remained entangled in the image of the stranger. At the piazza, an old woman selling dried herbs called out to her, "Lost something, giovane? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Karlie paused, the weight of the missing lemon feeling heavier than the entire crate. It wasn't just about the fruit; it was the way those blue eyes had bored into hers, like a storm about to break over the mountains. She felt a shiver of anticipation, a sense that the quiet, predictable life she loved in Tuscany had just been irrevocably altered.
The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges. Tonight would be unlike any other in this sleepy town. The air felt electric, pregnant with the scent of rain and a change in the wind.
If you play with fire, just let it burn, she thought, a reckless smile finally touching her lips. The flame of love had only begun to flicker in the dark, and Karlie Rossi had no idea that she was the one holding the match.
[Author's Note: Every legend begins with a single spark. For Karlie and Lorenzo, that spark was found in the dirt of a lemon grove. The Ice King has arrived, and the thaw is going to be more violent than the frost.]