drawing her on to his lap.
For a moment, Fran stiffened; he hadn’t warned her he was intending to do that. But then again, Gio’s family was incredibly tactile. Whenever one of them talked to you, there would be a hand on your arm, a gesture, a smile, a patted shoulder. And she was meant to be Gio’s girlfriend. Of course they’d expect her to sit on his lap.
So she relaxed back against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arms were wrapped round her waist, holding her close, and she was acutely aware of the warmth of his body. His strength. His clean scent. The steady, even beat of his heart.
And then it hit her.
This was exactly what she wanted.
Being smack in the middle of a big, warm, noisy family. Accepted as one of them. With a strong, handsome man holding her protectively.
Oh, lord. If she’d known it would be like this, she would never have agreed to this pretend-girlfriend thing. Because right now she was setting herself up for a broken heart. This wasn’t for real, and there was no chance it would turn out that way either—Gio had already told her he didn’t want to settle down.
As if he sensed the sudden tension in her, his arms tightened round her, a private signal that everything was going to be fine. No doubt he thought she was just a bit worried about whether his family would believe their story; and that was fine by her. Better than him guessing what she was really thinking.
Lunch was a noisy affair, with everyone chattering and laughing, the clink of glass and the tinkling of cutlery against crockery. A typical Italian Sunday lunch, with a steaming tureen of minestrone followed by beef with crispy-edged fluffy roast potatoes, roasted peppers and aubergines, cavalo nero and all the trimmings.
And pudding…‘Oh, wow,’ Fran said as she tasted the first mouthful. ‘I’ve never tasted ice cream this good.’
‘Nando’s special. Reserved only for the family,’ Angela told her. ‘Hazelnut.’
Served with a pile of tiny strawberries and a splash of wild strawberry liqueur over the top. ‘It’s fantastic,’ Fran said, meaning it.
And the entire table beamed at her.
After lunch, Fran insisted on helping to clear away.
‘No, you’re a guest—you sit down with Gio,’ Marcie said.
‘She’s not a guest,’ Nonna said firmly. ‘She’s Gio’s girlfriend. One of us.’
Fran had to blink away the tears. How easily she’d been accepted among the Mazettis. And it felt really good to be in this family kitchen, with all the women washing up or drying dishes or putting things away or making coffee, chattering away with half-a-dozen different conversations going on at once and everyone laughing and telling little anecdotes about their week—breaking off every so often to look at a photograph on a mobile phone screen and coo over assorted babies and puppies and kittens.
So different from her own, much quieter and more reserved family.
And the weird thing was, Fran thought with a pang, she felt as if she belonged here.
She’d marry Gio tomorrow, just for his family.
And the sudden realisation made her dizzy. If he asked her, she’d marry Gio tomorrow.
For himself.
If Gio’s family noticed that she’d gone a bit quiet, they clearly assumed that she was a bit overwhelmed by the experience of meeting the Mazettis, because nobody made a comment. They simply included her in the conversation and asked her opinion on things.
They’d just finished clearing away when the doorbell went. A few moments later, Ric and Angela came in with the twins, who were clearly used to the Mazetti way of doing things because they came to everyone for a hug and a kiss—including Fran.
With their mop of curly dark hair and huge brown eyes, they were irresistible; before she knew it, she was sitting in a chair with both children on her lap, cuddling them and telling them a story.
‘She’s perfect,’ Isabella said softly to Gio.
‘Sorry, Nonna?’
‘Fran. She’s perfect. When you look at her, the emptiness disappears from your eyes.’
‘My eyes aren’t empty.’
‘Sweetheart, they have been for years. I know you’ve been unhappy. That’s why you work so hard, to make sure you don’t have time to feel.’
Since when had his grandmother known that?
‘But she’s the one for you—and she’ll make you happy,’ Isabella said. ‘I like her very much.’
‘Good,’ Gio told her, striving for lightness. But every muscle felt tight with guilt. He was lying to his family about his relationship with Fran. Worse still, he had a suspicion that Nonna was right—that Fran was the one for him. That she was the one who could make him happy, fill the emptiness.
But on her part this was just for show.
And he’d always said he didn’t want to settle down.
So much for his promise that nobody would get hurt. Fran was right: this was going to end in tears. But it was much too late to go back now.
‘I REALLY like your family,’ Fran told Gio on the way home.
‘They’re a bit intense.’
‘Gio, they’re so warm and welcoming. They’re lovely.’
Which was what his family said about her, too. His parents and sisters had grabbed him the same way that Nonna had, to tell him privately that they approved of his choice.
No way could he have hurt them by telling them she was just acting a part.
But maybe she hadn’t been acting. The way she’d read stories to Ollie and Pat and cuddled baby Lorena…He’d seen a certain softness in her face. A softness that should have made him want to run as hard and as fast as he could, given that he wasn’t ready to settle down and have kids—but instead it had made him feel some weird kind of pull. Made him want something he didn’t dare put a name to.
‘They adore you, Gio.’
And he adored his family right back. He just didn’t want them running his life for him. ‘They liked you.’
‘Good.’
When he pulled up in the road outside her flat, she asked, ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’
It was a suggestion he couldn’t resist. Particularly as he hadn’t yet seen further into her flat than her front door. Her home would tell him a lot about her, he was sure. And he wanted to know more—a lot more—about the things she never talked about at work. Personal
