Kian's heart raced as he beheld the girl's beauty, her delicate features stirring something profound within him. Her small nose scrunched in her sleep, and her soft lips moved ever so slightly, painting the picture of an ethereal being. Was she an a...
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Third Person's PoV
As the Rossi brothers and Sky approached The Sunset Terrace, the scene that unfolded before them was one of serene beauty. The terrace, a masterpiece of stone and flora, offered a panoramic view of the vineyards, their rows of vines standing like sentinels under the midday sun. At the center of this idyllic setting was Mrs. Bianchi, seated elegantly at the head of a long table adorned with a pristine white tablecloth and a vibrant array of dishes that promised a feast for the senses.
Mrs. Bianchi, the heart of the Rossi household, rose to greet them, her apron immaculate and her smile as warm as the sun above. “Ah, here you are,” she said, her voice carrying the melody of old Italy. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send out a search party.”
Kian stepped forward, a respectful nod to the woman who had been a constant in his life. “We wouldn’t miss this for the world, Mrs. Bianchi. Your cooking is the highlight of any day.”
Sky, taking in the sight of the terrace and the spread before them, felt a rush of gratitude. “It’s b-beautiful here, and everything looks so delicious,” she commented, her eyes wide with admiration.
Mrs. Bianchi waved a dismissive hand, though her eyes twinkled with pride. “Pish-posh, it’s nothing. Just a little something I whipped up. Now, sit, sit! The food is getting cold.”
They took their seats, the brothers flanking Sky, who sat opposite Mrs. Bianchi. The table was a canvas of culinary art, from antipasti adorned with olives and sun-dried tomatoes to platters of pasta that seemed to capture the essence of the Italian countryside. A gentle breeze carried the scent of rosemary and basil, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread.
As the flavors of Italy danced upon their palates, Sky’s memory stirred, recalling the morning’s delights. “Mrs. Bianchi,” she began, her voice infused with genuine appreciation, “the b-breakfast you prepared for us was just as wonderful as this lunch. Your care in every dish really starts and brightens our day. Thank you so m-much for all that you do.”
Mrs. Bianchi’s cheeks flushed with a rosy hue, a smile creasing her well-worn features. “Oh, my dear, you are too kind,” she responded, her hands fluttering like birds in flight. “It is my joy to cook for such appreciative souls.”
Kian watched Sky with a tenderness that softened his usually stoic expression. He leaned in, his voice a whisper meant only for her, “You have a heart of gold, Sky. Your words are as sweet as the pastries we had this morning.”
Karl couldn’t resist joining in, his eyes crinkling with mirth. “Look at her, Kian. She’s practically an angel. I’m starting to believe she might just outshine the sun one of these days.”
The brothers exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them, a shared sentiment of admiration for the woman who had seamlessly woven herself into the fabric of their lives. Sky, oblivious to the effect she had on them, simply beamed, her innocence and kindness a beacon that drew them ever closer.
