Under The Tuscan Sun.... Michelle Douglas
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that she didn’t want to make a mistake that took them back to an uncomfortable place.
Still, they’d decided to be friends. Wouldn’t a friend want another friend to share a glass of wine at the end of the night?
She drew in a slow breath. She had one final way to get him to notice her and potentially invite her to sit with him. If he didn’t take this hint, then she would leave.
Slowly, cautiously, she called, “Good night.”
He looked over. He hesitated a second, but only a second, before he said, “Good night.”
Disappointment stopped her breathing. Nonetheless, she smiled and headed for the door. She walked to Louisa’s beat-up old car, got in, slid the key in the ignition...
And lowered her head to the steering wheel.
She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to tell him about the countryside she’d seen as she looked for Rosa’s relatives. She longed to tell him about the meals she’d eaten. She yearned to ask him how the restaurant had been the two days she was gone. She needed to get not just the cursory answers he’d given her but the real in-depth stuff. Like a friend.
But she also couldn’t lie to herself. She wanted that crazy feeling he inspired in her. Lust or love, hormones or genuine attraction, she had missed that feeling. She’d missed him. No matter how much she told herself she just wanted to be his friend, it was a lie.
A light tapping on her window had her head snapping up.
Rafe.
She quickly lowered the window to see what he wanted.
“Are you okay?”
Her heart swelled, then shrank and swelled again. Everything he did confused her. Everything she felt around him confused her even more.
“Are you ill?”
She shook her head.
Damn it. She squeezed her eyes shut and decided to just go with the truth. “I saw you with the wine and thought I should have joined you.” She caught the gaze of his smoky-gray eyes. “You said we were going to be friends. And I was hoping you sitting at the bar with a bottle of wine was an invitation.”
He stepped back. She’d never particularly thought of a chef’s uniform as being sexy, but he’d taken off the jacket, revealing a white T-shirt that outlined muscles and a flat stomach. Undoubtedly hot from working in the kitchen, he didn’t seem bothered by the cold night air.
“I always have a glass of wine at the end of the night.”
So, her instincts had been wrong. If she’d just started her car and driven off, she wouldn’t be embarrassed right now. “Okay. Good.”
He glanced down into the car at her. “But I wouldn’t have minded company.”
Embarrassment began to slide away, only to be replaced by the damnable confusion. “Oh.”
“I simply don’t steal women who belong to other men.”
“It wouldn’t be stealing if we were talking about work, becoming friends like you said we should.”
“That night was a one-time thing. A way to get to know each other so we could stop aggravating each other.”
“So we’re really not friends?”
He laughed and glanced away at the beautiful starlit sky. “We’re now friendly enough to work together. Men only try to become ‘real’ friends so that they can ultimately become lovers.”
The way he said lovers sent a wave of yearning skittering along her nerve endings. It suddenly became difficult to breathe.
He caught her gaze again. “I’ve warned you before to be careful with me, Dani. I’m not a man who often walks away from what he wants.”
“Wow. You are one honest guy.”
He laughed. “Usually I wouldn’t care. I’d muscle my way into your life and take what I wanted. But you’re different. You’re innocent.”
“I sort of liked being different until you added the part about me being innocent.”
“You are.”
“Well, yeah. Sort of.” She tossed her hands in exasperation, the confusion and longing getting the better of her. “But you make it sound like a disease.”
“It’s not. It’s actually a quality men look for in a woman they want to keep.”
Her heart fluttered again. “Oh?”
“Don’t get excited about that. I’m not the kind of guy who commits. I like short-term relationships because I don’t like complications. I’m attracted to you, yes, but I also know myself. My commitment to the restaurant comes before any woman.” He forced her gaze to his again. “This thing I feel for you is wrong. So as much as I wanted you to take the hint tonight and share a bottle of wine with me, I also hoped you wouldn’t. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“We could always talk about the restaurant.”
“About how you were missed? How a customer actually asked for you?”
She laughed. “See? That’s all great stuff. Neutral stuff.”
“I suppose you also wouldn’t be opposed to hearing that Emory thinks that after the success of your lunch menu, we should encourage you to make suggestions.”
Pride flooded her. “Well, I’ll do my best to think of new things.”
He glanced at the stars again. Their conversation had run its course. He stood in the cold. She sat in a car that could be warm if she’d started the darn thing. But the air between them was anything but cool, and she suddenly realized they were kidding themselves if they believed they could be just friends.
He looked down and smiled slightly. “Good night, Dani.”
He didn’t wait for her to say good-night. He walked away.
She sat there for a few seconds, tingling, sort of breathless, but knowing he was right. They couldn’t be friends and they couldn’t have a fling. She was innocent and he would hurt her. And though technically she’d stretched the truth about being engaged, it was saving her heartbreak.
After starting her car, she pulled out, watching in the rearview mirror as he revved the engine of his big SUV and followed her to Monte Calanetti.
* * *
Though Dani dressed in her usual black trousers and white blouse the next morning, she took extra care when she ironed them, making them crisper, their creases sharper, so she looked more professional when she arrived at the restaurant.
Rafe spoke sparingly. It wasn’t long before she realized that unless she had a new idea to discuss, they wouldn’t interact beyond his thank-you when she introduced him to a customer who wanted to compliment the chef.
She understood. Running into each other at the tavern the first time and talking out their disagreement, then playing darts the second, had made them friendly enough that they no longer sniped. But having minimal contact with her was how he would ignore their attraction. They weren’t right for each other and, older, wiser, he was sparing them both. But that didn’t really stop her attraction to him.
To keep herself from thinking about Rafe on Friday, she studied the customer seating, the china and silverware, the interactions of the waitresses with the customers, but didn’t come up with an improvement good enough to suggest to him.
A thrill ran through her at the knowledge that he took her ideas so seriously. Here she was, an educated but simple girl from Brooklyn, being taken seriously by a lauded European chef.
The sense of destiny filled her again, along with Rafe’s comment about happiness. This time her thoughts made her gasp. What if this feeling of rightness wasn’t about Rafe