it this way.’
The car wasn’t what she’d expected, either. It must have shown on her face, because he said with a grin, ‘Just what were you expecting me to drive, Fran?’
Well, he’d asked—she might as well be honest. ‘A Harley. Or maybe a two-seater.’
He laughed. ‘First off, if I had a motorbike, it’d be a Ducati—I’d always pick an Italian make first. But if you’ve ever tried having a guitar case as your pillion passenger…’ For a second, his face clouded. And then he looked wistful. ‘A two-seater…Yeah.’
‘A Ferrari?’ It was the only Italian sports car she could think of.
‘Along with taking out a second mortgage to pay for the insurance? No.’ He shook his head. ‘My first car was a two-seater—an Alfa. I bought her the day after I passed my driving test. Dad went bananas that I’d spent so much money on an old car with a soft top that always leaked, but she was the love of my life. The day the mechanic told me there was no way he’d be able to fix her up to pass the MOT and I’d have to scrap her…’ He sighed. ‘I rang every car museum I could think of to see if I could donate her somewhere she’d get a kind retirement.’
‘And you found somewhere?’
‘No.’ He opened the passenger door of the estate car for her. ‘Dad had to take her to the scrap dealer’s for me. I couldn’t face it.’
Oh, bless. On impulse, she gave him a hug.
And then wished she hadn’t when every single nerve-end started tingling.
And tingled a bit more when Gio’s arms came round her to return the hug. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For not laughing at me.’
‘Course I wouldn’t laugh at you,’ she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as rough and croaky to him as it did to her, and she ducked into the car.
She just about managed to recover her composure by the time he slid into the driving seat. ‘So how come you’ve got an estate car now?’ It was the complete opposite of a little two-seater sports car.
‘Because Marco got really fed up with me borrowing his to do the cash-and-carry run, and nagged me into getting my own. Although my suppliers deliver nowadays, I haven’t got round to changing the car to something a bit smaller and easier to park.’ He slanted her a look. ‘Don’t tell me you drive a two-seater?’
‘I don’t have a car.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t really need one, for London.’
‘What about when you go home to see your family?’
‘Train and taxi.’
‘So on a bright spring day, you never get up and decide to go to the seaside?’
‘No. But if I wanted to, there’s a reasonable train service from London to Brighton.’ She glanced at him. ‘Is that what you do on your days off? Go to the seaside?’
He gave her a non-committal murmur; given what she’d already heard his family say to him, she interpreted that as meaning that he almost never took time off.
As he turned on the ignition, the car was flooded with indie rock. Very loud indie rock.
‘Whoops.’ He turned the stereo off. ‘Sorry. One of my worst habits. Volume.’
She’d half-expected him to listen to classical guitar music. Or maybe that was too painful—a reminder of what he’d lost. ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind if you’d rather have music on when you’re driving.’
‘Just not at that volume, hmm?’ he asked wryly, but switched the stereo on again, this time lowering the volume to something much more bearable.
The journey was quick, and he parked in a side street near the Holborn branch. The feel of the place was very similar to the Charlotte Street café, but Fran was intrigued to see that it had its own identity. Different art on the walls, for starters. But the staff were just as warm and friendly as they were at Charlotte Street, and Amy—the head barista—seemed pleased to put a face to the voice from the previous day.
Islington was next, and then Docklands; again, Fran noticed that there wasn’t a uniform style to the cafés. ‘If you’re going to franchise the business,’ she said to Gio on their way back to Charlotte Street, ‘shouldn’t the cafés all look the same?’
‘Yes and no,’ Gio said. ‘I suppose there needs to be some kind of corporate identity. A logo or what have you. But I don’t want them to be identikit. I want each café to fit in with its surroundings and suit the clientele in the area. Which means they’re different.’ He lifted one shoulder. ‘I want to keep it personal. And sell bakery goods produced locally, to local recipes where possible—so if we expand further afield that would mean Banbury cakes in Oxfordshire, parkin in Yorkshire, Bakewell pudding in Derbyshire and that sort of thing. We’ll sell the best coffee and the best regional goodies.’ He frowned. ‘So I suppose that’s an argument against franchising.’
‘But if you go the other route and open more branches, you’re not going to have time to do a shift in every one, every single week, to get feedback from your customers and staff. Especially if some of them are outside London,’ she pointed out. ‘With four, you can do it. With five, it’s going to be a struggle. With ten—no chance.’
He sighed. ‘I’m doing the wrong thing. I shouldn’t be looking at franchising—I should be inventing a time machine, so I can make the time to visit all the branches myself.’
‘What was it your Italian grandmother says about trusting people?’ she asked gently. ‘If you expand, Gio, you’re going to have to learn to delegate. Trust your managers to do what you do and to give you the feedback. You don’t have to do it all yourself.’
‘I’m trying to delegate. I’m trusting you to sort the admin side.’ He coughed. ‘Well. Apart from sitting on your case, earlier.’ He parked in a little square just off Charlotte Street.
‘Where are we?’ Fran asked.
‘My parking space, near my flat.’ He smiled. ‘Told you I lived near the café. It’s a ten-minute stroll from my flat to work, tops, which makes life very easy.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you sure you’re still OK for a lesson in lattes?’
‘Sure.’ Which was when Fran realised that she’d actually been looking forward to it. All day. And even though she’d spent most of the afternoon with Gio, most of the time they’d been with other people.
This would be just the two of them.
Alone.
Strange how that thought made her heart beat a little bit faster.
They arrived back at the Charlotte Street branch just before closing. Once Sally and Ian had left, Gio bolted the door and switched off most of the lights. Then he smiled at Fran. ‘Ready?’
‘Yup.’ She fished her notebook out of her handbag.
‘OK. Rule one of milk—it has to be fresh and cold, or it won’t froth. It’s the proteins in milk that make the foam. And the way we do it is with a steam wand—your goal is to get the froth
