gray eyes flared. When he spoke, it was slowly, deliberately. “Miss Daniella, you are a tourist playing hostess. I am a world-renowned chef.”
This time the softness of his voice wasn’t seductive. It was insulting and her defenses rose. “I know. But I’m the one in the dining room, talking with your customers—”
His eyes narrowed with anger and she stepped back, suddenly wondering what the hell she was doing. He was her boss. As he’d said, a world-renowned chef. Yet here she was questioning him. She couldn’t seem to turn off the self-defense mechanisms she’d developed to protect herself in middle school when she was constantly teased about not having a home or questioned because her classmates thought being a foster kid meant she was stupid.
She sucked in a long, shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I pushed.”
He gave her a nod that more or less dismissed her and she raced out of the kitchen. But two minutes later a customer asked to speak with Rafe. Considering this her opportunity to be respectful to him, so hopefully they could both forget about their soup and salad disagreement, she walked into the kitchen.
But she didn’t see Rafe.
She turned to a busboy. “Excuse me. Where’s Chef Rafe?”
The young kid pointed at a closed door. “In the office with Emory.”
She smiled. “Thanks.”
She headed for the door. Just when she would have pushed it open, she heard Emory’s voice.
“I’m not entirely sure why you argue with her.”
“I argue with her? I was nothing but nice to that girl and she comes into my kitchen and tells me I don’t know my own business.”
Dani winced, realizing they were talking about her.
Emory said, “We need her.”
And Rafe quickly countered with, “You are wrong. Had Nico not sent her, we would have hired someone else by now. Instead, because Nico told her I was desperate, we’re stuck with a woman who thinks we need her, and thinks that gives her the right to make suggestions. Not only do we not need her, but I do not want her here—”
The rest of what Rafe said was lost on Dani as she backed away from the door.
Rafe saying that she wasn’t wanted rolled through her, bringing up more of those memories from middle school before she’d found a permanent foster home with Rosa. The feeling of not being wanted, not having a home, rose in her as if she were still that teenage girl who’d been rejected so many times that her scars burrowed the whole way to her soul.
Tears welled in her eyes. But she fought them, telling herself he was right. She shouldn’t argue with him. But seriously, this time she’d thought she was giving a valuable suggestion. And she’d stopped when she realized she’d pushed too far.
She just couldn’t seem to get her bearings with this guy. And maybe it was time to realize this really wasn’t the job for her and leave.
She pivoted away from the door, raced out of the kitchen and over to Gio. “Um, the guy on table three would like to talk with Rafe. Would you mind getting him?”
Gio studied her face, undoubtedly saw the tears shimmering on her eyelids and smiled kindly. “Sure.”
Dani walked to the podium, intending to get her purse and her coat to leave, but a customer walked in.
* * *
Rafe shook his head as Emory left the office with a laugh. He’d needed to vent and Emory had listened for a few minutes, then he’d shut Rafe down. And that was good. He’d been annoyed that Dani challenged him in front of his staff. But venting to Emory was infinitely better than firing her. Especially since they did need her. He hadn’t even started interviewing for her replacement yet.
He walked into the kitchen at the same time that Gio did. “Chef Rafe, there’s a customer who would like to speak with you.”
He turned to the sink, rinsed his hands and grabbed his towel, before he motioned for Gio to lead him to the customer.
Stepping into the dining room, he didn’t see Dani anywhere, but before he could take that thought any further, he was beside a happy customer who wanted to compliment him on his food.
He listened to the man, scanning the dining room for his hostess. When she finally walked into the dining room from the long hall that led to the restrooms, he sighed with relief. He accepted the praise of his customer, smiled and returned to his work.
An hour later, Dani came into the kitchen. “Chef Mancini, there’s a customer who would like to speak with you.”
Her voice was soft, meek. She’d also called him Chef Mancini, not Chef Rafe, but he didn’t question it. A more businesslike demeanor between them was not a bad thing. Particularly considering that he’d actually wanted to have an affair with her and had been thinking about that all damned day—until they’d gotten into that argument about soup and salad.
Which was why the smile he gave her was nothing but professional. “It would be my pleasure.”
He expected her to say, “Thank you.” Instead, she nodded, turned and left the kitchen without him.
He rinsed his hands, dried them and headed out to the dining room. She waited by a table in the back. When she saw him she motioned for him to come to the table.
As he walked up, she smiled at the customers. She said, “This is Chef Mancini.” Then she strode away.
He happily chatted with the customer for ten minutes, but his gaze continually found Daniella. She hadn’t waited for him in the kitchen, hadn’t looked at him when he came to the table—had only introduced him and left. Her usually sunny smile had been replaced by a stiff lift of her lips. Her bright blue eyes weren’t filled with joy. They were dull. Lifeless.
A professional manner was one thing. But she seemed to be...hurt.
He analyzed their soup-and-salad conversation and couldn’t find anything different about that little spat than any of their disagreements—except that he’d been smiling at her when she walked in, thinking about kissing her. Then they’d argued and he’d realized what a terrible idea kissing her was, and that had shoved even the thought of an affair out of his head.
But that was good. He should not want to get involved with an employee. No matter how pretty.
When the restaurant cleared at closing time, he left, too. He drove to his condo, showered and put on jeans and a cable-knit sweater. He hadn’t been anywhere but Mancini’s in weeks. Not since Christmas. And maybe that was why he was having these odd thoughts about his hostess? Maybe it was time to get out with people again? Maybe find a woman?
He shrugged into his black wool coat, took his private elevator to the building lobby and stepped outside.
His family lived in Florence, but he loved little Monte Calanetti. Rich with character and charm, the stone-and-stucco buildings on the main street housed shops run by open, friendly people. That was part of why he’d located Mancini’s just outside of town. Tourists loved Monte Calanetti for its connections to the past, especially
