Beautiful Things Never Last by Steph Campbell Read Free Book Online

a boisterous round of applause. I’ve never understood this concept. Bravo on doing your job and not killing us, C aptain! Still, I feel my cynical heart melt a little bit at the announcement that we are officially on Italian soil.
          Part of me feels like this can’t even be real. Because people like me don’t get these types of opportunities. Screw ups don’t end up with guys like Ben. Or in Italy.
    Except it has actually happened. Ben is mine, and I’m here .
          It isn’t long before I’ve collected my luggage, boarded the sleek yellow and white EuroStar train, and have arrived in my home for the next month - Spello.
          I collect my large, red suitcase and head out of the train station in search of the home I’ll be staying in. There are only a handful of students in the program, so we’re each staying with a resident of the tiny as hell town. I stop on the steps outside of the station and take in the gorgeous little hilltop medieval town.
    The sun is high and bright, and the sky is a pure, sweet blue. The entire town seems baked by the sun’s glow, and there’s this kind of bleached-clean beauty that makes even the occasional broken shutter and toppled garbage can with its rolling green wine bottle seem quaint. Its cute lane d ways are filled with potted flowers, so spots of red and pink and white add pretty bursts to the cracking stone steps. The cobbled streets are as treacherous as they are gorgeous, with missing stones and uneven, jutting shards and deep cracks. The ancient brick and stone houses don’t feel like they should have satellite dishes and plastic watering cans and mail boxes full of bills, but they do, of course. As much as they seem like bizarre relics of ancient history to me, for everyone who lives in them, they’re just home.
    There are endless vistas of rolling hills dotted with brown and green trees and stone archways carved with intricate designs and Latin inscriptions. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, and I feel like I could have traveled in a tornado or through a wardrobe to get here. How the hell is this only a plane ride away from my normal life?
    I pull my map out of my purse, though I seriously doubt I’ll need it in a town this small, and start up the cobbled walkway, careful not to break my ass. The lane curves and twists up the hillside, and I am so thankful for my laidback attire by the time I reach the stone villa. I knock lightly once, then again, but there isn’t an answer at the door. 
    Crap.
    I dig through my carry-on bag and pull out the wadded up piece of paper with the address and double check that I’m at the right place. I don’t know how to get to the back of the house, and I don’t want to stand out front. That only leaves one option.
    Find food.
                       
                        The bell above the door jingles as I push through it . I barely take a single step inside the small shop before I’m greeted by the most amaz ing medley of smell s my nose has ever met— g arlic and herbs and meat and bread. Swe et and savory scents intertwine in ways that shouldn’t meld together and smell like heaven— but do. The stone walls are lined from floor-to-ceiling with dark wood shelves stocked full of wine bottles, so high that there’s a ladder propped against the shelves to reach the top items. There’s a crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room that should overpower the small space, but it doesn’t. Everything about the space is contradictory, yet perfect.
                        “ Buonasera!” I female voice calls from behind the long counter.
                        “ Buongiorno!” I reply. My Italian accent is severely lacking, but it’s one of the three-or-so phrases I was able to learn before leaving. I walk to the side of the store that the voice came from, stopping to inhale deeply with every