every winding road seem to fill a need inside her?
The feeling followed her to Rome. To the alleyways between the quaint buildings. To the sidewalk cafés and bistros. To the Colosseum, museums and fountains she took Louisa to see.
And suddenly the feeling named itself. Home. What she felt on every country road, at every landmark, gazing at every blue, blue sky and grassy hill was the sense that she was home.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She told herself she wasn’t home. She was merely familiar with Italy now because she’d lived in Rome for months. Though that made her feel better for a few minutes, eventually she realized that being familiar with Rome didn’t explain why she’d felt she belonged at Mancini’s.
She shoved that thought away. She did not belong at Mancini’s.
The next day, Dani and Louisa found Rosa’s family and were invited to supper. The five-course meal began, reminding her of Rafe, of his big, elaborate dinners, the waitresses who were becoming her friends, the customers who loved her.The weepy sense that she had lost her home filled her. Rightly or wrongly, she’d become attached to Mancini’s, but Rafe had fired her.
She had lost the place where she felt strong and smart and capable. The place where she was making friends who felt like family. The place where she—no matter how unwise—was falling for a guy who made her breath stutter and her knees weak.
Because the guy she felt so much for had fired her.
Her brave facade fell away and she excused herself. In the bathroom, she slid down the wall and let herself cry. She’d never been so confused in her life.
* * *
“Rafe, there’s a customer who’d like to talk to you.”
Rafe set down his knife and walked to Mila, who stood in front of the door that led to the dining room. “Great, let’s go.”
Pleased to be getting a compliment, he reached around Mila and pushed open the door for her. Since Dani had gone, compliments had been fewer and farther between. He needed the boost.
Mila paused by a table with two twentysomething American girls. Wearing thick sweaters and tight jeans, they couldn’t hide their tiny figures. Or their ages. Too old for college and too young to have amassed their own fortunes, they appeared to be the daughters of wealthy men, in Europe, spending their daddies’ money. Undoubtedly, they’d heard of him. Bored and perhaps interested in playing with a celebrity chef, they might be looking for some fun. If he handled this right, one of them could be sharing Chianti with him that night.
Ignoring the tweak of a reminder of sharing that wine with Dani, her favorite, he smiled broadly. “What can I do for you ladies?”
“Your ravioli sucked.”
That certainly was not what he’d expected.
He bowed slightly, having learned a thing or two from his former hostess. He ignored the sadness that shot through him at even the thought of her, and said, “Allow me to cover your bill.”
“Cover our bill?” The tiny blonde lifted a ravioli with her fork and let it plop to her plate. “You should pay us for enduring even a bite of this drivel.”
The dough of that ravioli had serenaded his palms as he worked it. The sweet sauce had kissed his tongue. The problem wasn’t his food but the palates of the diners.
Still, remembering Dani, he held his temper as he gently reached down and took the biceps of the blonde. “My apologies.” He subtly guided her toward the door. The woman was totally cooperative until they got to the podium, and then she squirmed as if he was hurting her, and made a hideous face. Her friend snapped a picture with her phone.
“Get it on Instagram!” the blonde said as they raced out the door. “Rafe Mancini sinks to new lows!”
Furious, Rafe ran after them, but they jumped into their car and peeled out of his parking lot before he could catch them.
After a few well-aimed curses, he counted to forty. Great. Just when he thought rumors of his temper had died, two spoiled little girls were about to resurrect them.
He returned to the quiet dining room. Taking another page from Dani’s book, he said, “I’m sorry for the disturbance. Everyone, please, enjoy your meals.”
A few diners glanced down. One woman winced. A couple or two pretended to be deep in conversation, as if trying to avoid his misery.
With a weak smile, he walked into the kitchen, over to his workstation and picked up a knife.
Emory scrambled over and whispered, “You’re going to have to find her.”
Facing the wall, so no one could see, Rafe squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t have to ask who her was. The shifts Daniella had been gone had been awful. This was their first encounter with someone trying to lure out his temper, but there had been other problems. Squabbles among the waitresses. Seating mishaps. Lost reservations.
“Things are going wrong, falling through the cracks,” Emory continued.
“This is my restaurant. I will find and fix mistakes.”
“No. If there’s anything Dani taught us, it’s that you’re a chef. You are a businessman, yes. But you are not the guy who should be in the dining room. You are the guy who should be trotted out for compliments. You are the special chef made more special by the fact that you must be enticed out to the dining room.”
He laughed, recognizing he liked the sound of that because he did like to feel special. Or maybe he liked feeling that his food was special.
“Did you ever stop to think that you don’t have a temper with the customers or the staff when Dani’s around?”
He didn’t even try to deny it. With the exception of being on edge because of his attraction to her, his temperament had improved considerably. “Yes.”
Emory chuckled as if surprised by his easy acquiescence. “Because she does the tasks that you aren’t made to do, which frees you up to do the things you like to do. So, let’s just bring her back.”
Missing Dani was about so, so much more than Emory knew. Not just a loss of menial tasks but a comfort level. It was as if she brought sunshine into the room. Into his life. But she was engaged.
“Why should I go after her?” Rafe finally faced Emory. “She is returning to America in two weeks.”
“Maybe we can persuade her to stay?”
He sniffed a laugh. Leaning down so that only Emory would hear, he said, “She has a fiancé in New York.”
Emory’s features twisted into a scowl. “And she’s in Italy? For months? Without him? Doesn’t sound like much of a fiancé to me.”
That brought Rafe up short. There was no way in hell he’d let the woman he loved stay alone in Italy for months. Especially not if the woman he loved was Daniella.
He didn’t tell Emory that. His reasoning was mixed up in feelings that he wasn’t supposed to have. He’d gone the route of a relationship once. He’d given up
