Under The Tuscan Sun.... Michelle Douglas
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in love with it. Or let Rafe see just how drawn she was to this place. If he knew her weakness, he’d easily lure her into staying before she was sure it was the right thing to do.
She pointed at the kitchen, which managed to look cozy even with sleek stainless-steel appliances, dark cabinets and shiny surfaces. “It’s awfully modern.”
“So you want to go back to the farmhouse with the holes in the wall?”
“No.” She turned away again, though she lovingly ran her hand along the granite countertop, imagining herself rolling out dough to make cut-out cookies. She’d paint them with sugary frosting and serve them to friends at Christmas. “I want a homey kitchen that smells like heaven.”
“You have that at Mancini’s.”
“I want a big fat sofa with a matching chair that feels like it swallows you up when you sit in it.”
“You can buy whatever furniture you want.”
“I want to turn my thermostat down to fifty-eight at night so I can snuggle under thick covers.”
He stared at her as if she were crazy. “And you can do that here.”
“Maybe.”
“Undoubtedly.” He sighed. “You have an idealized vision of home.”
“Most foster kids do.”
He leaned his shoulder against the wall near the kitchen. His smoky eyes filled with curiosity. She wasn’t surprised when he said, “You’ve never really told me about your life. You mentioned getting shuffled from foster home to foster home, but you never explained how you got into foster care in the first place.”
She shrugged. Every time she thought about being six years old, or eight years old, or ten years old—shifted every few months to the house of a stranger, trying unsuccessfully to mingle with the other kids—a flash of rejection froze her heart. She was an adult before she’d realized no one had rejected her, per se. Each child was only protecting himself. They’d all been hurt. They were all afraid. Not connecting was how they coped.
Nonetheless, the memories of crying herself to sleep and longing for something better still guided her. It was why she believed she could keep her distance from Rafe. Common sense and a longing for stability directed her decisions. Along with a brutal truth. The world was a difficult place. She knew that because she’d lived it.
“There’s not much to tell. My mom was a drug addict.”
He winced.
“There’s no sense sugarcoating it.”
“Of course there is. Everyone sugarcoats his or her past. It’s how we deal.”
She turned to him again, surprised by the observation. She’d always believed living in truth kept her sane. He seemed to believe exactly the opposite.
“Yeah. What did you sugarcoat?”
“I tell you that I’m not a good bet as a romantic partner.”
She sniffed a laugh.
“What I should have said is that I’m a real bastard.”
She laughed again. “Seriously, Rafe. I got the message the first time. You want nothing romantic between us.”
“Mancini’s needs you and I am not on speaking terms with any woman I’ve ever dated. So I keep you for Mancini’s.”
She looked around at the apartment, unable to stop the warm feeling that flooded her when he said he would keep her. Still, he didn’t mean it the way her heart took it. So, remembering to use her common sense, she focused her attention on the apartment, envisioning it decorated to her taste. The picture that formed had her wrestling with the urge to tell him to get his landlord on the line so she could make an offer—then she realized something amazing.
“You knew I’d love this.”
He had the good graces to look sheepish. “I assumed you would.”
“No assuming about it, you knew.”
“All right, I knew you would love it.”
She walked over to him, as the strangest thought formed in her head. Maybe it wouldn’t take a genius to realize the way to entice a former foster child would be with a home. But no one had ever wanted her around enough to figure that out.
“How did you know?”
He shrugged. His strong shoulders lifted the black leather of his jacket and ruffled the curls of his long, dark hair. “It didn’t take much to realize that you’d probably lost your sense of home when your foster mother died.”
She caught his gaze. “So?”
“So, I think you came to Italy hoping to find it with her relatives.”
“They’re nice people.”
“Yes, but you didn’t feel a connection to Rosa’s nice relatives. Yet, you keep coming back to Mancini’s, because you did connect with us.”
Her heart stuttered. Even her almost fiancé hadn’t understood why she so desperately wanted to find Rosa’s family. But Rafe, a guy who had known her a little over two weeks, a guy she’d had a slim few personal conversations with, had seen it.
He’d also hit the nail on the head about Mancini’s. She felt they were her family. The only thing she didn’t have here in Italy was an actual, physical home.
And he’d found her one.
He cared about her enough to want to please her, to satisfy needs she kept close to her heart.
Afraid of the direction of her thoughts, she turned away and walked into the master bedroom. Seeing the huge space, her eyebrows rose. “Wow. Nice.”
Rafe was right behind her. “Are you changing the subject on me?”
She pivoted and faced him. He seemed genuinely clueless about what he was doing. Not just giving her everything she wanted, but caring about her. He was getting to know her—the real her—in a way no one else in her life ever had. And the urge to fall into his arms, confess her fears, her hopes, her longings, was so strong, she had to walk away from him. If she fell into his arms now, she’d never come out. Especially if he comforted her. God help her if he whispered anything romantic.
“I think we need to change the subject.”
“Why?”
She walked over to him again. For fifty cents, she’d answer him. She’d put her arms around his neck and tell him he was falling for her. The things he did—searching her out in Rome, making her general manager, helping her find a home—those weren’t things a boss did. No matter how much he believed he needed her as an employee, he also had feelings for her.
But he didn’t see it.
And she didn’t trust it. He’d said he was a bastard? What if he really was? What if he liked her now, but didn’t tomorrow?
“Because I’m afraid. Every time I put down roots, it fails.” She said the words slowly, clearly, so there’d be no misunderstanding. Rafe was a smart guy. If she stayed in Italy, shared the joy of making Mancini’s successful, no matter how strong she was, how much discipline she had, how much common sense she used, there was a chance she’d fall in love with him.
And then what?
Would she hang around his restaurant desperate for crumbs of affection from a guy who slept with her, then moved on?
That would be an epic fail. The very thought made her ill.
Because she couldn’t tell him that, she stuck with the safe areas. The things they could discuss.
“For as good as I am at Mancini’s, I can see us having a blowout fight and you firing me again. And for as much as I like the waitstaff, I can see them getting