A Valentine's Wish. Betsy St. Amant
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“Lori, yes. The new manager Bella sent.” He grinned and dipped into a low bow, the white strings of his apron dangling close to the ground. The scent of mint chocolate drifted to Lori’s nose. “I am Edmondo Renardo Rossi, but you may call me Monny.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Monny.” She offered her hand.
“The pleasure is all mine.” He caught her palm and squeezed. “We shall make—what do they say?—beautiful chocolate together.” He winked.
A half snort, half laugh escaped Lori’s mouth, and she tried to cover it with a cough. When Bella told Lori about the chef, she must have forgotten to mention he was the Italian drama king. “Wow, your accent is strong.”
Monny released her hand and straightened his shoulders with pride. “It should be. I am from Napoli, and am here in America to learn Cajun cuisine and desserts. My family owns a business and wanted me to bring new cultures to our restaurant.”
“I see. So you’re learning the ropes on desserts right now, apparently.” Lori motioned toward the streaks of dried fudge on his apron.
“Ropes?” Two brown eyebrows meshed together as one.
Lori pointed toward the kitchen. “Learning how to bake.” She pantomimed stirring in a bowl, then felt ridiculous. He didn’t need sign language; he obviously spoke English. Her cheeks warmed.
“Ah, si.” Monny kissed his fingertips in a broad gesture. “Before Bella hired me, I worked at the Gumbo Shop. You Southern Americans, you like the spices.”
The bell on the door tinkled. Lori jerked. She’d gotten so distracted trying to decipher Monny’s accent, she’d forgotten she was there to work. She hadn’t even opened the register yet. Or fanned the pink paper napkins on the counter as Bella said she did every morning. Or more importantly, sampled a crocodile before they sold out.
“I’ll have my usual.” An elderly, slightly hunched gentleman in a pinstripe suit hobbled toward the counter, a heavy cane accentuating his steps. A cool winter breeze floated in behind him, stirring Lori’s hair. The door shut with a clank.
“Ah, customers. Time to work.” Monny lightly patted Lori’s cheek before disappearing into the kitchen. “Ciao.”
“Wait, what’s his usual?” But Monny was gone in a puff of flour and charm. Lori hurried into position behind the register, shaking her head to wrench back to reality.
“Good morning.” She put on her best smile. “I’m taking over for Bella—”
“Who are you?” the old man barked, lips nearly hidden behind a thick gray mustache. “Where’s Bella?”
“She had a family emergency. I’m Lor—”
“I said what’s your name, dearie? You deaf?”
Lori winced. “No, sir, I said my name is—”
“Ah, forget it. Young people have no manners nowadays.” He thumped one gnarled hand on the counter. “Give me my usual.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know—”
“Don’t tell me you’re out of black coffee and dark chocolate raspberries.”
Lori exhaled for the first time in what felt like minutes. “Of course not. Right away, sir.” She reached for the coffeepot—the empty coffeepot. “Uh, just a minute.” She opened the white cabinet doors under the coffee station. Where were all the beans? And how was she supposed to work that glittering monstrosity of a coffee machine?
Panic cramped her stomach in time to the impatient tapping of Grouchy Man’s cane. She was going to fail on her first day of work. Make that her first ten minutes of work. She’d never get to eat chocolate again. Why couldn’t the other girl, the college student, what’s-her-name-with-the-eyebrow-ring, have been working today?
Lori shoved her hair out of her eyes with an impatient flick, then paused. The list. Bella had said she would leave a list of instructions in the register since she hadn’t had an opportunity to train Lori in person. Anything else she needed she could ask the chef or Eyebrow-Ring Girl or could call Bella’s cell.
Lori unlocked the register and grabbed the list with a triumphant hand. Redemption, in the form of neat penmanship and sheets of lined notebook paper. Thank You, Lord. She skim-read until she found the section labeled Coffee.
The instructions were two inches long.
Lori licked her lips, darted a glance at the cappuccino machine staring menacingly down at her and then at Grouchy Man. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll serve you when it’s ready?”
She couldn’t tell if the frown was new, or if his wrinkles were permanently knit that way, but regardless, Grouchy Man stomped his cane toward a nearby table and planted himself in a chair, arms crossed.
Lori turned back toward the machine and drew a fortifying breath. She was so having a chocolate crocodile after this.
Andy tried the handle on the door of the Chocolate Gator. Locked. The hours posted informed him the shop closed at six, and it was fifteen past. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered through the glass into the dim boutique. He could barely make out Lori’s sprawled form at a table, one arm hanging limply over the back of her seat. Her legs were crossed, and she rubbed one bare foot with her free hand. Red high-heel shoes lay on the floor by her chair.
He winced. High heels on the first day at a new job? Big mistake—but knowing Lori and her accessory fetish, she’d be back in a different pair of equally ridiculous shoes tomorrow, and probably sporting a matching purse. He knocked on the glass.
Lori waved and gestured at her feet. As in, she wasn’t about to get up. Part of him couldn’t blame her; the other part wanted to point to her shoes and yell duh. He knocked louder.
“Coming!” an Italian accent bellowed through the glass. Andy jumped. The door was flung open to reveal a tall, dark-haired guy about his own age, maybe late twenties. “Ciao.”
“Uh, ciao.” Andy stepped over the threshold, taking in the chocolate smeared on the sleeves of the man’s white shirt and the flour dusting the top of his shoes. “I’m Bella’s nephew, Andy Stewart.”
“Ah, si! You are the one who secured this angel a job.” He gestured toward Lori, who grinned and offered an innocent shrug. Angel? Apparently this guy had never experienced Lori’s temper—or witnessed her reaction to an empty doughnut box.
Andy cleared his throat. “I guess I am. And you are?” The chef, obviously. But Andy wanted a name—and he really wanted the odd twisting sensation in his stomach that began the moment this dude called Lori an angel to quit.
“Edmondo, or Monny. I cook with Bella.”
They shook hands, Andy’s grip a bit tighter than necessary. He forced his palm to relax. “Nice to meet you.” His aunt told him months ago about her new chef from overseas, but failed to mention he was this young—and this Italian. Hopefully Lori wasn’t one of those crazy girls who got all excited hearing a foreign accent….
“Monny,