the fact I’m not—’
Oh. Not attached and not gay. So did that put him into the rat category?
‘—she wouldn’t believe me anyway. Because I’m a hopeless liar,’ he added with a rueful smile.
So maybe the rule of three didn’t apply in this case. Gio might just be the exception that proved the rule.
He smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so worried. What I’m trying to say is that you’re safe with me. I’m not trying to hit on you.’
Which was true, Gio thought—up to a point. He’d noticed Fran Marsden weeks ago. There was something about her: she was quiet, maybe even a little shy, but she always knew exactly what she wanted instead of dithering over the menu, always had the right money, and always had a smile for the barista who made her cappuccino, not taking the service for granted. Efficient and courteous. He liked that. So he’d made a point of working a morning shift in the Charlotte Street café on Wednesdays, when he knew she’d be in; even if he hadn’t served her himself, seeing her put a sparkle into the middle of his week.
But he’d never intended to act on that attraction. He knew better than to mix business with pleasure, and he’d never overstep the boundaries with a customer.
Besides, Nonna was right. There was no point in asking her out because no woman would put up with the hours he worked. And it wasn’t fair to suggest a relationship to someone who was just trying to pick up the pieces of her life after some bad news. Especially the way he was feeling right now—restless, at the point where the chain of coffee shops had stopped being a challenge and started being a burden. Though he’d invested so much of his life in Giovanni’s, he had no idea what he wanted to do instead.
Except…
No. That particular dream had crashed and burned. He wasn’t going back.
But if the idea that had been spinning round in his head for the last few months worked out, he could help Fran pick up the pieces and maybe help stop his restlessness at the same time.
He knew he was acting on impulse, but he’d always been a good judge of character in the past. And he was pretty sure that Fran Marsden was just the kind of woman he needed to help him. ‘I think this could be good for both of us,’ he said. ‘So, will you have dinner with me this evening? I happen to know the best pizzeria in London.’
‘Pizza,’ she said, the tiniest sparkle in her eyes.
He laughed. ‘Well, what else would an Italian suggest for dinner?’
To his pleasure, the sparkle turned into a full-wattage twinkle. And, lord, she was lovely when she smiled properly. It lit her up from the inside, transforming her from average to beautiful.
‘Grilled scamorza,’ she said. ‘Panna cotta. And dough balls with garlic butter.’
Oh, yes. A woman on his wavelength. One who actually enjoyed food instead of nibbling at a celery leaf and claiming she was too full to manage anything more—one who saw the pleasure in sharing a meal instead of the misery of counting calories. One who might just understand what he wanted to do. ‘That,’ he said, ‘sounds pretty much perfect. So we have a deal? I’ll feed you and you’ll listen to what I have to say?’
She shook her head. ‘I might not have a job right now, but I can still pay my way. We’ll split the bill.’
Not a yes woman, either; he warmed to her even more. Fran was exactly what he was looking for. ‘Deal,’ he said. He still had a pile of paperwork to do, but he’d done the banking an hour before and the float would be fine in the safe. ‘Let me lock up, and we’ll go.’
TWENTY minutes later, Fran and Gio were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant in Fitzrovia, halfway between Euston Road and Gower Street. The décor was classic: a black-and-white chequered floor, walls colour-washed in amber, marble-topped bistro tables, wrought-iron chairs with thick burgundy-coloured pads on the seats, a chalk board with the day’s specials written in European-looking handwriting, and candles set in raffia-covered chianti bottles.
Gio was clearly known here, because the waiter bantered with him before showing them to what looked like the best table in the house.
‘So, are you a regular here?’ she asked.
‘This place does the best food in London. It’s where my family comes for birthdays, red-letter days and every other excuse we can think of.’
The waiter materialised beside them and handed them a menu. ‘Except you’re always late for dinner, Gio, because you’re busy working and you have no idea of time. Nonna would tell me to box your ears.’
Gio laughed. ‘Ah, now, Marco, she would also tell you that the customer is always right.’
‘You don’t count as a customer,’ Marco said, laughing back. ‘But you, signorina, do.’He set a plate of tiny canapés in between them. ‘Don’t let him talk you into giving him your share.’
‘As if I would—oh…’ Gio’s eyes widened ‘…don’t eat those cheese discs, Fran. They’re inedible. Better let me handle them.’
Marco pretended to cuff him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute for your order. And behave yourself, or I’ll tell Mama what you just said about her cooking.’ He winked, and left them with the menus.
‘Are the cheese discs really…?’ Fran asked, eyeing the plate of gorgeous-looking canapés.
‘No, they’re fabulous. They’re my favourite and I was teasing you. Actually, I was trying to be greedy,’ Gio admitted with a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I should have said—Marco’s my cousin.’
She glanced at the waiter, who was serving another table; now Gio had mentioned it, she could see the family resemblance. But although Marco was good looking and charming, there was something else about Gio. Something that all the other women in the room had clearly noticed, too, because Fran could see just how many heads he’d turned.
‘Marco’s mother—my Aunt Annetta—is the chef.’ Gio’s smile turned slightly wry. ‘I’m afraid my family’s terribly stereotyped.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘My grandparents moved to London from Milan in the 1950s, and they opened a trattoria,’ he explained. ‘Their children all went into catering, too—Dad opened a coffee shop, Netti started the pizzeria, and my Uncle Nando is the family ice-cream specialist. He makes the best gelati in London.’
‘And you’re all still close?’
‘As I said, we’re stereotyped. Typical Italian family.’ He spread his hands. ‘Big and noisy and knowing way too much of each other’s business. Dad, Netti and Nando all live in the same street—the same place I grew up with my sisters and my cousins. Though none of us lives at home now; my generation’s spread a bit.’ He shrugged. ‘Sometimes it feels a bit crowded, and it drives me crazy when they try to organise my social life and find me the perfect girlfriend. But if things get rough it’s good to know there’s a bunch of people looking out
