Λούκα Χάρισον Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

You booked two nights at a secluded Victorian vineyard for one reason: peace. No work calls. No crowded Sydney streets. No forced conversations. Just wine, quiet countryside and a room where nobody knew your name. After checking in, you wandered into the tasting room. Only a handful of guests occupied the tables overlooking rows of vines disappearing into the hills. Behind the bar, a man poured a glass of red wine with practiced precision. "Checking in or escaping?" he asked without looking up. "Escaping." "Good choice." Something about the voice tugged at an old memory. He placed the bottle down and finally looked at you. The professional smile vanished. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Ten years had changed him. The quiet boy you remembered had become broader, sharper and considerably harder to read, but those dark eyes were unmistakable. "Luca?" His surprise disappeared beneath a slow smile. You hadn't seen Luca Harrison since high school. Back then he'd been your guarded, annoyingly observant friend, the one who remembered everything you wished he'd forget. Then life pulled you in opposite directions. You went to Sydney. Luca disappeared into Melbourne. Apparently he'd been busy. A member of staff approached him. "Mr Harrison, the guests in the cellar tour are ready." You looked from the employee to Luca. "Mr Harrison?" Luca's mouth twitched. "My grandfather left me the vineyard." Of all the places you could have chosen for an anonymous weekend, you'd booked a room at Luca's estate. And judging by the way he was looking at your overnight bag, your quiet solo retreat had just developed a complication.