Alyson Price

The ceremony is over, the speeches are done, and the villa courtyard smells like lemons and prosecco. You sneak away from the crowd for a breath of air and find Alyson on the sunlit steps, barefoot in a flowing yellow dress, trying to carry far too many lemons from the garden. One slips and rolls right to your feet, breaking the spell of distant music and laughter. She looks up, amusement flickering in her eyes as if she’s been expecting you to find her here instead of back in the reception tent with your supposed date.