by Kate Hardy
She ushered him into the kitchen and put the box from the danceathon on one of the worktops. ‘What would you prefer—red or white?’
‘Whatever’s open,’ he said.
She peered into the fridge. ‘Rosé.’ She paused. ‘Is that OK?’
‘It’s fine,’ he said.
She poured two glasses and handed him one before lifting her own in a toast. ‘Cheers, and thank you again for your help.’
‘My pleasure.’ He took a sip of the wine.
Clearly he’d made a face, because she asked, ‘It’s too sweet for you, isn’t it?’
‘It’s fine,’ he fibbed.
‘You said most of your family lives in Italy.’ She bit her lip. ‘Please don’t tell me they have a vineyard.’
‘I’m afraid they do,’ he said.
‘And they’ve won awards for their wine?’ she guessed.
He nodded. ‘Bardolino chiaretto.’
‘That’s red, right?’
‘Red’s the most famous Bardolino wine. But chiaretto is rosé,’ he said. Light, not too sweet, and perfect for summer evenings.
‘Sorry, I’m afraid this isn’t award-winning stuff. Though it’s very drinkable in summer.’
It was way too sweet for his taste, but he wasn’t going to make her feel bad. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Given that there were really only snacks at the danceathon, I ought to offer you a very late dinner,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid all I have in my fridge is some salad, plus some ready-made pasta sauce and some dried pasta in the cupboard. And, especially as you’re Italian and you’re used to proper home-made pasta, I’m not sure I dare offer you that.’
Her kitchen didn’t look like a cook’s kitchen. It looked more like the kind of place where she sat and chatted with friends, over coffee and cakes that she’d bought from the local bakery rather than made herself. There was a cork board on the wall with lots of leaflets pinned to it; dozens of photographs were held to the fridge with magnets, and he’d just bet the mantelpiece in her living room was crammed to bursting with photographs in frames.
‘You’ve been literally rushed off your feet for the last six hours, not to mention setting up and clearing away again. I don’t expect you to make dinner for me.’ This was his perfect cue to go home.
Common sense said that he should go home. Now.
But part of him really wanted to stay. To get to know Jenna better.
He found himself saying, ‘But I could cook for you, if you like.’
She blinked. ‘Hang on. You’re offering to cook for me?’
‘I can’t dance,’ he said, ‘but cooking’s in my skill-set.’
‘That’s one up on me,’ she said. ‘My family always teases me that I could burn water. Lucy—my sister—insists on cooking for me on Monday nights so she knows I eat one proper meal a week.’ She looked at him and frowned. ‘You said your family owns a vineyard. Do they own a restaurant as well?’
‘Um, yes. Two or three. And a couple of hotels.’
She groaned. ‘Then I am never, ever offering to cook for you.’
He laughed. ‘Just because my cousin happens to be a Michelin-starred chef, it doesn’t mean we’re all that standard.’
She looked at him. ‘Your cousin seriously has a Michelin star?’
‘Yes. But Matteo’s very down to earth,’ Lorenzo protested. ‘He just likes good, fresh food that’s cooked well and presented well.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘I bet none of your family dares cook for him.’
‘He’s a chef, not a critic. If a meal is cooked for him with love, he’ll eat it and smile, even if it’s absolutely terrible.’ Lorenzo grinned. ‘Though the next morning whoever cooked it will get a quiet private lesson on how to make it better in future. Little tiny tweaks that you can remember easily and make a huge difference to how edible the finished dish is. Matteo’s one of the good guys.’ He smiled. ‘And he taught me to make great pasta sauce from just about anything.’
‘Well, if you really want to see what you can do with an almost empty fridge, be my guest.’ She spread her hands. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Let’s have a look at what’s there.’ At her gesture of permission, he looked in her fridge. There was some olive oil margarine, cheese, some spring onions and tomatoes that were past their best, half a bag of tired-looking spinach, and a bulb of garlic that had started sprouting. Not brilliant, but he could work with it. And he wasn’t going to use the jar of sauce, either.
‘Do you have any fresh chilli?’ he asked, though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.
‘Nope.’ She rummaged in a cupboard. ‘How about chilli flakes? I’ve never actually opened them. Lu probably bought them for me. Oh, wait...’
Lorenzo had to smother a grin as she checked the sell-by date and gave a visible sigh of relief. ‘It’s OK. They’re still in date.’
‘Good. All I need now is a sharp knife and a chopping board, a grater, the pasta—oh, and two pans, please.’
A bit more rummaging in the cupboard, and she produced the dried pasta, a chopping board, a grater and two pans. ‘The knife’s in the drawer next to the sink. Don’t you need the jar of sauce?’
‘No,’ he said with a smile. He put the kettle on to boil water for the pasta. ‘We’ve got about ten minutes until dinner,’ he said, once he’d poured the water over the pasta. ‘Sit down and relax.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be bossy and take over. It’s your kitchen.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s nice having my own personal chef.’
And actually it felt good to cook for someone again. He’d loved making pasta sauce for Florence, helping her feed herself and smiling as she smeared tomato sauce round her face and asked for more. ‘Mato, Dada!’
While the pasta bubbled away, he chopped the tomatoes, spring onions and garlic, added them to the pan with the margarine and sautéed them, then added the chilli flakes and the spinach to let the leaves wilt. Finally he grated the cheese.
Jenna had set the table while he was cooking; Lorenzo tested the pasta, then drained it and divided it between the two large pasta bowls she’d got ready, added the sauce, and sprinkled the cheese on top. ‘Here we are.’
She took a mouthful and her eyes widened with pleasure, the way Florence’s used to. ‘I know what was in my fridge and I had no idea anyone could make anything from that lot, even Lu—and she loves cooking. This is seriously impressive. Did you ever think of being a chef, like your cousin?’
‘No. I always wanted to be a doctor,’ he said.
‘Are either of your parents doctors?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Dad’s an architect and Mum works at the local nursery school. How about yours?’
‘Dad’s a GP and Mum’s his practice nurse,’ she said.
‘Medicine runs in the family, then. So is your sister a medic, too?’
‘No. Lucy is a primary school deputy head—one of the youngest to have the role,’ she said, clearly very proud of her sister. ‘What about you? Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘One of each—my brother’s an architect, like my dad, and my sister’s a florist. I’m the oldest.’
‘Me, too,’ she said with a smile. ‘So does your cousin who’s the chef live in London, too?’
‘Verona,’ Lorenzo explained. ‘Most of my family live somewhere between the city and one of the towns on the southern end of Lake Garda, either working in the family vineyard or at the hotels or restaurants. My dad was the odd one out; he was always fascinated by buildings and he wanted to be an architect. Because he’s the baby of the family, everyone supported him. They were really proud of him when he got a top job in London, even though it meant moving here and he wouldn’t see much of everyone. Though obviously it’s better nowadays with phones and video calls, and flights
are so easy. We always spent the summer holidays at the vineyard when I was growing up and even during my student years, picking grapes and helping with the harvest. We’d take a boat out on the lake and have picnics after the day’s work was done, and watch the sun set over the mountains.’
‘That sounds idyllic,’ she said.
‘It was. Lake Garda’s the most beautiful place on earth,’ he said. ‘Italy’s my second home.’
‘It sounds as if your family’s close,’ she said.
‘They are.’ Though he was the only one in his family who’d messed up his marriage. Both his brother and sister were happily married with a three-year-old each—exactly as he thought he’d be at this stage.
How wrong he’d been.
He looked at her. ‘And, from the photographs on your fridge, so is yours.’
She smiled. ‘We are.’ She got up to take one of the photographs and handed it to him. ‘That’s Lucy, my brother-in-law Will, and their baby Ava. They would’ve been at the danceathon today—but Will’s niece was getting married this afternoon, so they’re up in Edinburgh for the weekend.’
He looked at the photograph and then back to her. ‘Would I be right in saying Lucy’s your identical twin?’
‘Uh-huh. But I’m the oldest by a whole three minutes.’ She smiled. ‘And I’m a very doting aunt. What about you? Do you have any nieces and nephews?’
‘Yes.’ And, for eighteen months, I had a daughter. Except it was all a lie. He shook himself. ‘One of each. Riccardo has a little girl, Emily, and Chiara has a little boy, Jack. They’re both three.’ A couple of months older than Florence. ‘And they both go to the nursery school where my mum works.’
‘Oh, that’s lovely.’
‘It means they both settled in really quickly, because Nonna was there to make it familiar,’ he said with a smile.
‘Just like Lu takes Ava to Dad’s surgery for vaccinations because Granny can always make Ava laugh and take her mind off the sting of the needle,’ Jenna said.
There was something wistful in her face, quickly hidden again. But it felt too intrusive to ask.
He made polite conversation about food until they’d finished dinner.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t offer you pudding,’ she said.
‘That’s fine. I’ll wash up.’
She shook her head. ‘You cooked, so I’ll deal with the washing up.’
And now it really was his cue to leave. ‘I guess I’d better let you get on. I’ll see you at work on Monday, then.’
‘Thank you for dinner,’ she said.
He spread his hands. ‘Hey, you provided the ingredients. I just cooked.’
‘Half that stuff was well past its best and you still produced something amazing,’ she pointed out.
‘I like cooking. It relaxes me,’ he said. And then curiosity got the better of him. ‘What would you have done if I hadn’t cooked?’
‘Probably poured myself a bowl of cereal,’ she admitted. ‘Which is why Lu nags me.’
‘I’d nag my sister, too, if she did that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Actually, I nag her about breakfast all the time, because she’s always up so early for the flower markets and she claims she doesn’t have time to eat. Chiara would live on coffee if I didn’t nag her.’
She smiled at him. ‘Bossy oldest sibling, hmm?’
He laughed. ‘And do you boss Lucy about?’
‘Sometimes,’ she admitted.
‘There you are, then. Takes one to know one.’
She grinned. ‘Bet I’m bossier than you.’
‘You’re definitely more of a hustler than me,’ he said with a grin. ‘Seriously, though, thanks for today. I really enjoyed it.’ And he was surprised by how much fun it had been.
‘And I really appreciate you giving up your time to help,’ she said.
He accidentally brushed against her as she walked with him to her front door, and it sent a tingle right through him. It tipped him off balance to the point where he said, ‘Maybe, if you’re not busy tomorrow, I could take you out for lunch.’
Her eyes widened. ‘That’s very nice of you to ask me, and I’m flattered,’ she said carefully, ‘but I’m afraid I’m focusing solely on my exams right now. I’m not looking for a relationship.’
‘Neither am I.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I just asked you out.’ Honesty compelled him to add, ‘There’s just something about you that—I don’t know. Draws me, I suppose.’ And he wanted to move on, past the loneliness. He had a feeling that Jenna could be the one to help him do that.
Her face shuttered. ‘I don’t do relationships.’
Someone had obviously really, really hurt her. Time to back off. ‘Then please forget I said anything. I’ll let you get on.’ He smiled at her. ‘Goodnight, Jenna. See you at work on Monday.’
‘Goodnight, Renzo. See you at work,’ she said.
And he left before he could do something really stupid. Like giving in to the temptation to lean forward and kiss her.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘AM I DOING the wrong thing, Charlie, turning Renzo down for a proper date?’ Jenna asked, the next morning, as she was playing ball with her neighbour’s dog in the park. ‘I mean, I’ve known him for a couple of weeks. I’ve worked with him and I’ve seen for myself that he’s great with patients, he’s great with their parents, and he’s really good with the junior staff on the ward, teaching them without making them feel stupid. He fits in well on team nights out. Plus he gave up all that time to help out at the danceathon yesterday. He’s one of the good guys. I like him a lot. And he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Half the women at the hospital would fall at his feet.’
The dog barked, and Jenna threw the tennis ball for him.
He retrieved it, scampered back and dropped it at her feet.
‘But I haven’t been asked out by anyone since—well, since Danny. And I got it so badly wrong with him. I thought we were getting on just fine. I thought we were happy. I thought he was going to ask me to marry him, and I was going to say yes. And then the adoption agency turned Lu down. It broke her heart. Of course I was going to offer to carry a baby for her. I wanted to make things right for her again.’ She sighed. ‘And Danny made it into something disgusting. Once he realised I really don’t care about money, he accused me of fancying Will, and carrying the baby for Lu meant I was getting what I really wanted, having Will’s baby. And it just wasn’t true. I love Will dearly, but not in that way. He doesn’t make my heart beat faster when he smiles. The room doesn’t feel different when he walks in.’
Charlie tipped his head on one side, as if to say, ‘Does the room feel different when Renzo walks in?’
That wasn’t a question Jenna wanted to answer. Not right now. She threw the ball. ‘I don’t know if I can trust my judgement again, after Danny. I was so wrong about him. What if I’ve got it wrong about Renzo, too, and he’s going to be just as disapproving and judgemental about the surrogacy?’
Charlie retrieved the tennis ball and deposited it at her feet.
‘I know what Lu would say. He’s a nice guy, so give him the benefit of the doubt. Talk to him.’
Charlie barked, as if agreeing.
‘But it’s not the easiest thing to talk about. What do I say? Hey, before we start dating, just so you know, I was a surrogate mum for my twin sister’s baby.’ She grimaced. ‘It’s not exactly the kind of thing you can just drop casually into a conversation, is it?’
Charlie cocked his head on one side, clearly waiting for her to throw the ball again.
Jenna threw it as hard as she could, and watched the dog run after it and bound back to her, his tail a blur. ‘He asked me to have lunch with him. I said no. But I could call him, see if he’s still free. Maybe we could go out as friends. See if we like each other enough to take it a step further. And if that does h
appen, then I’ll work out how to tell him about Ava.’
Charlie brought the ball back and waited patiently for her to throw it.
‘I guess I just need to take life one step at a time instead of trying to plan it all in advance,’ she said, and threw the ball. When the dog brought it back, she ruffled his fur and said, ‘OK, sweetie. That’s it for this morning. We need to get you back home to Evelyn.’
Charlie barked, as if to say, ‘Just one more throw.’
How could she resist those adorable brown eyes?
Lorenzo’s eyes were brown and adorable, too...
‘How feeble am I, Charlie?’ she asked ruefully, and threw the ball one last time. Then she made a fuss of the dog, stuffed the tennis ball in her coat pocket, clipped his lead back onto his collar and walked him back through the park to their street.
When she got back to her own house, she stared at her mobile phone. Lorenzo had given her his phone number before the danceathon, in case of emergency. Should she call him? Ask if his offer of lunch still stood?
It would be a risk. Opening herself up to rejection again.
But part of her knew she needed to move on from the past. Move on from the hurt Danny had caused her. And maybe Lorenzo was the one who could help her? Maybe she was the one who could help Lorenzo move on, too, from whatever had happened in his own past that put shadows in his eyes every so often?
There was only one way to find out.
She took a deep breath and called his number.
‘Jenna,’ he said when he answered. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to call me.’
‘About yesterday,’ she said. ‘I was rude, and I apologise.’
‘No, you were honest, and that’s absolutely fine.’
‘The thing is... I was wondering if you’re still free for lunch? Because we could...’ Her throat dried. ‘Have lunch. As friends.’ Oh, why was it so hard to get the words out? She sounded like an inarticulate teenager.
‘Lunch as friends would be nice.’
‘Not a date,’ she checked.
‘Not a date,’ he agreed. ‘Didn’t you say you walk your neighbour’s dog at weekends?’