Destiny's Last Bachelor?

by Christyne Butler

  “Don’t...” Her protest trailed off as Maria had already disappeared into the kitchen.

  Two minutes later, Gemma Palermo came through from the dining room.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, bella.” She kissed both of Rachel’s cheeks, then looked past her friend and frowned. “You are alone?”

  “I usually am,” Rachel reminded her.

  “But it’s Valentine’s Day,” her friend said again.

  “I know. And I didn’t mean to take you away from your customers. I just wanted to get some pasta to take home—”

  “Where you can eat alone?”

  Rachel couldn’t help but smile at the distress in Gemma’s tone. “It’s not illegal, you know.”

  “Maybe it should be.”

  But eating alone was Rachel’s status quo, and she liked it that way. She was a smart, successful woman. She didn’t need a man to make her life complete. She firmly and honestly believed that—most of the time. But she couldn’t deny that the prospect of sitting alone in her empty condo eating penne with sausage and peppers from a plastic take-out container on Valentine’s Day made her feel just a little bit pathetic.

  “I’ve been on my feet all day,” Rachel told her friend. “I just want—”

  “To sit down,” Gemma interrupted again. “Yes, you should sit down and have a nice glass of wine.”

  She nodded. “Actually, a glass of wine would be nice.”

  “Long day?”

  “The longest.”

  Her friend nodded her understanding. “Tony refused to book any reservations past nine o’clock—otherwise, we’d be here all night.”

  “I guess you don’t get to go out for dinner on Valentine’s Day, either.”

  Her friend blushed. “We celebrated earlier. He made me breakfast in bed, and then... Well, let’s just say we were almost late for work.”

  “Good thing he’s the boss,” Rachel noted.

  “Only at the restaurant,” Gemma said.

  Rachel had to laugh. She’d gone to high school with both Gemma Battaglia and Tony Palermo. Tony’s grandparents—Salvatore and Caterina Valentino—were the original owners of the restaurant when it first opened its doors almost fifty years earlier. It was, and continued to be, a family restaurant.

  Tony had started bussing tables and washing dishes when he was ten years old, then he’d moved up to serving customers and helping with kitchen prep. Now he was the proprietor and head chef. Gemma had worked as a waitress in high school and for several years after, then she became a hostess and was now married to Tony. And so blissfully happy that she wanted all of her friends to be the same.

  “Marco is working the bar tonight,” Gemma said, referring to her youngest brother-in-law. “You tell him what you want to drink while I put your order in. Penne with sausage and peppers?”

  She nodded, and her friend hurried off.

  Rachel took a seat at the bar and requested a glass of valpolicella. She unbuttoned her coat as Marco poured the wine and set the glass on a napkin in front of her.

  “How did you get stuck working Valentine’s Day?” she asked.

  “I volunteered,” Marco admitted.

  She raised her brows. “No plans with Tammy?”

  “We broke up.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He shrugged. “How about you? Why are you here instead of dancing the night away—and maybe getting lucky—with a handsome man who’s not nearly good enough for you?”

  “I’ll consider it lucky if my feet will take me home again.”

  “If they won’t—” he lifted her hand, touched his lips to the back of it “—I will.”

  She smiled at the twenty-two-year-old. “You better be careful, Marco, or one of these days, I just might take you up on that offer.”

  “I keep hoping.”

  Rachel knew him too well to take him seriously, but she couldn’t deny that his casual flirtation was a nice boost to her ego.

  “I should be out of here by ten,” he said now. “We could go back to my place and—”

  “Stop flirting with my friend,” Gemma, back from the kitchen, chastised her brother-in-law.

  His gaze didn’t shift away from Rachel. “Why?”

  “Because she’ll break your heart.”

  “She does every single time I see her.”

  Gemma shook her head at him and said to Rachel, “I’ve got some counter space for you in the kitchen.”

  “It would be easier if you just let me take it home.”

  “It will taste better if you’re among friends,” Gemma insisted.

  Rachel took the second glass of wine Marco poured for her and followed the hostess to the kitchen.

  A stool was waiting at the end of a stainless steel workstation that was covered with a linen cloth and set up to replicate the tables in the dining room, complete with a lit candle inside a hurricane shade.

  “Okay, this is better than eating out of a take-out container,” Rachel admitted.

  “Of course it is,” Gemma agreed, as the pantry chef set a plate of salad and a small basket of artisan breads in front of Rachel. “I need to check on the dining room, but I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  As the kitchen staff continued with their rhythms and routines, Rachel dug into her salad. She was about halfway through the appetizer when Gemma returned to the kitchen.

  “We can squeeze another chair in here,” she was saying. “I’m sure Rachel would enjoy having some company.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  “Then you won’t insult me by turning it down,” Gemma said.

  The male voice sounded somewhat familiar, but Rachel couldn’t place it—until she lowered her fork and looked up, into Andrew Garrett’s green eyes.

  * * *

  Andrew appreciated that Gemma had the best of intentions and a good heart, but he really just wanted to take some pasta home and be alone. Or so he thought until he saw the pretty brunette from the flower shop seated at a makeshift table in the kitchen.

  When she glanced up, the widening of her deep blue eyes reflected a surprise that mirrored his own. “Oh, um, hi.”

  He smiled. “Hi, yourself.”

  The hostess’s gaze shifted from one to the other. “You know each other?”

  “Sort of,” he said.

  At the same time the florist responded, “Not really.”

  “Well, that clears everything up,” Gemma said drily.

  “Mr. Garrett’s been in to Buds & Blooms a few times,” she explained.

  “Andrew,” he told her, and, realizing that they’d never been formally introduced, offered his hand.

  “Rachel Ellis,” she replied.

  “Why are you eating in the kitchen?” he asked her.

  “Because no one wants to be alone on Valentine’s Day,” the hostess answered.

  Rachel’s cheeks flushed. “Because Gemma refused to let me take my food home.”

  “There seems to be a lot of that going around,” Andrew noted.

  “We have a couple paying their bill and no one waiting for their table, if you wanted to move into the dining room,” Gemma suggested.

  Rachel shook her head, immediately and vehemently. “I’m good here.”

  His instinctive response was the same. If they dined together in the kitchen, they could share pasta and casual conversation. But if they ate in the dining room, with soft lighting and romantic music, it would take on a whole different ambience—almost like a date.

  “Looks like a pretty good setup,” he said to Rachel. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not,” she said.

  The words were barely out of her mouth before a waiter was at the table, setting another place. One
of the chefs immediately put a salad on the table for him.

  “I almost think there’s better service here than in the dining room,” he teased Gemma.

  “Now I’m thinking that I should put your pasta in a take-out container and send you home,” she countered.

  He was tempted to say “please,” but given a choice between sharing a meal with the florist and eating alone, he had to go with the florist.

  “The truth is,” he said instead, “the culinary genius of the chef is second only to the beauty of the restaurant’s hostess.”

  Gemma laughed. “Flattery will get you anywhere you want to go in my restaurant, but now I must go back to work.”

  When she’d exited the kitchen, Andrew picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of lettuce. He and Rachel ate in silence for a few minutes, and though his dinner companion said nothing, he could imagine the questions that were running through her mind.

  “I’m impressed,” he said, when he’d finished his appetizer.

  She sipped her wine. “By the salad?”

  “By your restraint.”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “It’s not any of my business.”

  “But you’re wondering why I’m not having dinner with the woman I bought the flowers for,” he guessed.

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “The flowers were for my wife,” he told her. “But she died three years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “How long were you married?”

  “Five years.”

  One of the kitchen assistants cleared away their salad plates and another immediately set bowls of steaming pasta on the table. He looked from his to hers, noticed they were the same.

  Rachel speared a chunk of spicy sausage with her fork, popped it into her mouth.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Why are you alone tonight?”

  “I’m on a dating hiatus,” she admitted.

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I made a lot of bad choices with respect to relationships, so I decided to take a break from men.”

  “How long have you been on this break?” he wondered.

  “Sixteen months.”

  “You haven’t been on a date in more than a year?”

  “No,” she admitted. “But even when I was dating, I never liked dating on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s too much pressure to make a simple date into something more on February 14, too many expectations on both parties.” She nibbled on her penne. “Did you know that ten percent of all marriage proposals take place on Valentine’s Day?”

  He shook his head.

  “It makes me wonder—is the popularity of proposals on that day a result of romance in the air or a consequence of the pressure to celebrate in a big way?”

  “The Valentine’s Day chicken and egg,” he mused.

  She nodded. “And then there are the Valentine’s Day weddings, which seem to me the lazy man’s way of ensuring he’ll remember his anniversary.”

  Andrew waited a beat before he said, “Nina and I were married on Valentine’s Day.”

  Copyright © 2014 by Brenda Harlen

  ISBN-13: 9781460333266

  DESTINY’S LAST BACHELOR?

  Copyright © 2014 by Christyne Butilier

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.

  www.Harlequin.com