Epilogue
Sue
The late August sun poured molten gold over the Tuscan hills, gilding the patchwork of vineyards and olive groves in a light so lush it felt edible.
The road curled lazily—a ribbon between cypress trees, each bend revealing a landscape so picturesque it could’ve been painted by the Roman gods after a bottle of Chianti.
Sitting in the passenger seat, I had one arm out the window, letting the breeze tangle through my fingers, while my other hand rested on Cam’s thigh.
Every breath I took was steeped in rosemary, lavender, sun-warmed earth, and the faint, dreamy sweetness of ripe grapes. The air here was ancient and forgiving, as though it had seen lifetimes come and go and still believed in beauty.
Cam glanced at me, his free hand giving mine a squeeze. “You okay?”
I turned toward him, grinning. “Okay? I think my soul is actually glowing.”
He chuckled, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to make my stomach do that now-familiar swoop. “Good. I’d hate to think I’d dragged you all the way to Italy, and you hated it.”
I scoffed, sweeping my gaze across the sun-drenched hills. “This is the opposite of hate. This is—I don’t know—divine intervention? Paradise? Italian Pinterest come to life?”
We shared a quiet laugh, and I caught the flicker of pride in his eyes.
Cam had planned every detail of this trip without telling me.
All I knew was that he’d booked us two weeks in Tuscany as an engagement gift.
What I hadn’t expected was that he’d tracked down my long-lost cousin and found the very farmhouse where my father had grown up—a place I’d only ever heard about in wistful fragments and family lore.
As we came around the final bend, the Morelli farmhouse, perched on a slope, peeked from the folds of the land.
The stone walls were pale gold, aged to perfection, and the terracotta roof glowed in the dying light.
Vines crept up the facade, and beyond the house, rows of grapevines stretched across the hills in orderly, eternal lines.
In front of the gate hung a rustic wooden sign with elegant iron scrollwork: La Casa di Morelli – Agriturismo e Vino.
I blinked, the air catching in my throat. “My God.”
“I know,” he murmured. “I thought you should see it. For real.”
Emotion caught me off guard. My throat tightened as the car rolled to a stop in the gravel driveway.
A woman stepped out from the shade of the arched entryway.
She was tall, with espresso-dark eyes and a crown of wavy black hair shot through with silver.
Her skin glowed with that ageless, olive-toned grace that only Italians and vampires seemed to master, and she moved with the easy confidence of someone entirely at home.
She approached the car, a broad smile lighting her beautiful face.
“Cugina!” she called out, her accent curling melodiously around the word. “Welcome to Tuscany.”
Bianca Morelli enveloped me in a hug that left no room for hesitation. Her arms were strong, scented faintly with bergamot and basil, and her laughter bubbled out as though she’d been waiting her whole life for this reunion.
“It’s so strange,” she said, pulling back to look at me. “We’ve never met, and yet I feel I’ve known you forever. You look so much like Uncle Carlo. The same eyes, same smile.” She touched my chin. “The same dimple right there.”
I blinked hard, trying to hold back the lump in my throat. “Papa always said his brother’s daughter was a rebel.”
Bianca winked. “I take that as a compliment.”
Cam had come around to stand beside me, and Bianca gave him a once-over that was pure Italian scrutiny—polite but thorough. She nodded approvingly. “Molto bello. Good jaw. Strong hands. You did well, cugina.”
I laughed, linking my arm with Cam’s. “Trust me, I know.”
She waved us toward the arched stone entryway with the flair of a stage actress. “Come in, come in. The house is yours. And we have much to toast.”
Inside, the farmhouse was a living poem—sun-washed walls, wooden beams, terracotta floors worn smooth by generations of my ancestors, and tall windows flung wide to the warm evening air.
It didn’t smell like dust or mildew, the way I’d imagined.
It smelled like rosemary and lemon and fresh bread baking in the kitchen.
Bianca led us into a spacious foyer where sunlight spilled through an iron-framed window, casting soft patterns on the tiled floor.
“You renovated this yourself?” I trailed my fingers along the worn banister of the staircase.
She smiled. “Piece by piece. After Nonna and Nonno passed away, the house sat empty for years. I couldn’t bear to see it crumble. So I moved back. My friends thought I was insane, leaving Rome for a ruin. But I knew this place still had a heartbeat.”
I turned to Cam, tears pricking my eyes again. “Thank you for this, for her.”
He squeezed my hand. “You’re most welcome. I’m happy to see you happy.”
We followed Bianca through the house, marveling at every detail.
The original ceiling beams had been preserved, their dark wood rich with age.
On the walls hung black-and-white photographs—my grandparents on their wedding day, my father as a young boy holding a chicken with exaggerated care, a faded image of a village festival with streamers, wine barrels, and too many mustaches.
In the kitchen, a giant copper pot simmered on the stove, sending curls of garlic and tomato-scented steam into the air. An enormous black cat lay sprawled on a sunbeam near the hearth, eyeing us with mild curiosity.
“That’s Luigi,” Bianca said. “He’s the real owner of the house.”
Luigi blinked once, deeply unimpressed.
Bianca opened the back doors, revealing a stone terrace that overlooked the vineyard. Ivy curled along the banisters, and a rustic table stood under a pergola hung with fairy lights and drying grape leaves. Beyond that, the land stretched out in gentle waves of green and gold.
“This was your father’s favorite spot,” Bianca said softly, pointing toward a stone bench in a corner. “He used to bring a book and sit here for hours. I thought it would be yours, too.”
I sat slowly, touching the warm stone of the bench. “It already is.”
I stared out at the shimmering horizon, the land unfolding before me in quiet majesty.
Something deep within me stirred—an ancestral echo I hadn’t known I’d been missing.
For so long, my roots had felt unreadable, unreachable.
But now, with the Tuscan soil beneath my feet, the sun warming my skin, the scent of grapes in the air—it all felt familiar.
I had never known this kind of peace. Not the fleeting calm of a quiet morning in the city, but something older, deeper. A stillness that settled in my bones and hummed through my blood.
So much suddenly made sense—the way I could lose myself in the pulse of crowds, yet only truly recharge when I escaped into green spaces.
The contradiction I’d always been, split between movement and stillness, noise and silence.
The city thrilled me and nature healed me.
Here, I saw the origin of that duality. I wasn’t torn between two worlds, I was the bridge between them. And I had inherited the best of both.
* * *
Dinner was a small, spontaneous celebration—just the three of us and Luigi, who presided from his window perch like a mafia boss overseeing a treaty.
Bianca brought out a carafe of ruby red wine.
She poured generously, her gold bracelets clinking with every movement, and served a simple meal of roasted chicken with lemon and rosemary, crispy potatoes, and grilled zucchini fresh from her garden.
Cam took one bite and groaned. “If I’d known this was waiting for me in Tuscany, I would’ve proposed sooner.”
I grinned. “We need to spend more time here.”
Bianca chuckled, pouring more wine. “Food is love here. If you’re not slightly buzzed and halfway to a food coma by the end of dinner, we’ve failed as hosts.”
As the sun dipped behind the rolling hills, the vineyard seemed to glow from within. Cicadas began their nightly serenade, and somewhere nearby, a flute played—a lazy, meandering melody that danced on the wind. Cam reached for my hand beneath the table, our fingers tangling instinctively.
“You’ve found your roots,” he whispered.
I looked at him, my heart tender with joy. “And planted new ones.”
After dessert—some impossibly creamy gelato Bianca insisted was better than sex—she left us to explore on our own. The farmhouse at night was a different kind of magic. Candle sconces flickered along the stone walls, and shadows played gently in the corners of the ancient rooms.
Our bedroom was pure Tuscan romance—a sun-warmed blend of old wood, crisp linen, and charm that smelled faintly of lavender.
Sloped beams arched overhead, framing gauzy curtains that billowed in the breeze.
The bed was enormous and inviting, draped in a hand-stitched quilt the color of vintage cream.
After dinner, I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth, already half-drowsy from wine and happiness, when Cam’s voice rang out.
“Son of a sparkly—!”
I paused mid-stroke, blinking at my reflection.
“Everything okay?” I called around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“No. No, everything is not okay. Something exploded in my suitcase.”
“Exploded?” I padded out barefoot, toothbrush still in hand—and stopped cold.
Cam stood near the bed, his expression equal parts panic and disbelief. His hair, shirt, jeans, arms—even his eyebrows—were covered in glitter. It shimmered pink and gold, clinging to every inch of him like festive dandruff.
He blinked, making glitter sparkle on his eyelashes.
I dropped my toothbrush. “Is that… is that glitter?”
He held up the culprit remains of a delicate pink box, now torn open and oozing with shiny chaos. The tag still fluttered from the ribbon:
To Sue and Cam. For educational purposes only.
Love,
Jesse, Ange, Lily and Nikki
“They booby-trapped it,” he said darkly. “It was a glitter bomb. There’s… something sticky involved. I think it activated on touch. I’m contaminated.”
“Oh my God, you look like a deranged disco ball.” I sniffed the air. “Mm, it was a rose-scented glitter bomb.”
He turned slowly toward the mirror, staring at his reflection in silent horror. “This is war.”
I collapsed onto the edge of the bed, laughing so hard my stomach ached.
He glared at me through a haze of sparkle. “This is not funny. This glitter has micro cling. It’s impossible to remove completely.”
I picked through the box’s contents. Beneath the detonation zone lay a Dirty Dancing DVD, a Kama Sutra DVD, a tiny bottle of something labeled strawberry massage elixir, and a pink feather that looked entirely too eager.
A note was tucked underneath in Jesse’s looping handwriting: Use responsibly. And call if you need more.
I held up the feather with solemn ceremony. “Shall we inaugurate the ancestral bed, Professor Glitterpants?”
“This is not funny. I can feel this crap in my every crack.”
“Oh no! Not your cracks!” I wheezed.
His eyes gleamed as he crossed the room and plucked the feather from my fingers. “Don’t forget you have more cracks than I do, and I plan to balance the glitter scales.”
My smile collapsed and I tried to make a run for it, but it was too late. Cam trapped me in one movement and sent both of us sprawling onto the bed, his glitter-covered body on top of mine.
“Let’s see who’s laughing now.” He grinned, then shook his head, making glitter rain down on me.
I squirmed, giggling helplessly as he started the process of glitter transfer, rubbing his cheeks against mine, touching as much of me as he could.
Minutes later, we were both glowing and giddy. I stopped struggling and looked up at him, out of breath, covered in sparkles and utterly smitten.
“Cam,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
He stilled, eyes darkening. “For what? Sharing the glitter?”
“For this. For finding this place. For knowing how much it would mean to me even before I did. For always putting me first, even when I was a hot mess of denial and sarcasm. For loving me anyway.”
His hand slipped into my hair, his thumb brushing my cheek with a tenderness that made something in my chest go soft and fragile. “Always,” he said simply. “You’re the one for me, Susanne. From that first pink sludge encounter to now and every glitter bomb between.”
I smiled, tracing a finger over his glitter-covered cheek. “We started in pink sludge and ended up in a different kind of pink sludge.”
He chuckled.
My throat tightened. “I think I loved you from the moment you didn’t run screaming from that robe.”
He kissed me, slow and reverent. “You’re my forever home,” he whispered against my lips. “Wherever we go, whatever we do—you’re the one.”
Tears stung the backs of my eyes as I pulled him close, glitter and all. Beneath us, the ancient bed creaked in protest. Around us, candlelight danced across plaster walls that had seen generations come and go.
And above us, the stars waited to watch us on our journey. Whatever the future held, we would face it together.
Not ready to leave Singleville yet? Good news—there's more to love!
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Grab Jesse and Sebastian’s story next in Wright Next Door:
A sexy, hilarious, and deeply emotional enemies-to-lovers romance about finding healing in unexpected places—and falling for the last person you wanted to need.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read Things We Fake!