‘Not regular enough!’ shouted Gianna from within a plume of steam.
Mo smiled, his dimple creasing into a deep line that ran the length of his stubbled cheek. ‘Yeah, I come here a bit. I even have my own special spot,’ he said jokingly, patting the table. ‘Gianna tells me it’s only for me, but I have my suspicions.’
Moments later, Gianna reappeared with a white ceramic dish loaded with steaming hot meatballs in a richly fragrant tomato sugo. ‘Le nostre polpette famose!’ She placed the dish on the table and spun on her heel, quickly returning with plates bearing steamed green beans, roasted potatoes and plump olives. Finally, she placed a bowl of freshly shaved parmesan in the centre of the table. ‘Just a little bit,’ she instructed, pressing her thumb and forefinger together.
Mo gestured for Netta to serve herself first. She spooned three meatballs onto her plate and, as she reached forward to grab some parmesan, Mo’s fingers brushed against hers as he reached for the meatballs. ‘Sorry,’ he said, immediately retracting his hand.
Netta’s inhale was, embarrassingly, audibly sharp. Mo’s touch was every bit as electrifying as she’d predicted it would be—a lightning zing from her knuckle to every cell. Even herscalpfelt suddenly turned on.
Tamping her hormones down, Netta flashed him a vanilla smile and scattered the cheese on top of her meal, the smell of it making her stomach ache with hunger. She stabbed a meatball with her fork and lifted it to her mouth, stopping to savour its comforting aroma. As she took her first taste, her eyes involuntarily closed, as though her brain had to shut off an entire sense to deal with the deliciousness. When she opened them, Mo was watching her.
‘Good?’
‘So, so good,’ she said. ‘Like, next-level amazing.’
‘I thought you’d like it here,’ he said, smiling.
‘This tastes like curling up on the couch in front of an open fire feels,’ sighed Netta contentedly, loading up another forkful.
‘Supreme comfort food,’ agreed Mo. ‘The Ugg boots of food.’
‘Oh my God,’ said Netta, wide-eyed. ‘Imagine eating this on the couch in front of an open fire, wearing Ugg boots.’
‘Stop flirting with me,’ he groaned. ‘That’s some sexy talk right there.’
Netta flushed crimson and took an indecent mouthful of wine, swallowing with an almighty gulp. ‘Okay,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Tell me more about Play On. What’s the deal?’
‘I started it up a few years ago,’ said Mo. ‘It’s my way of giving back, I guess. I never wanted to go public with it but my hands are tied. We have big plans for an international expansion that rely on my comeback. And I want to start a music school and set up a scholarship program to help people afford to study to become a music teacher, so there’s a lot depending on the income from the new album. But the whole comeback thing is in limbo until I can get my public image into shape. Rhona and I thought maybe publicising some of the good stuff I do would be a smart move, at this point.’
‘I think what you’re doing is amazing,’ said Netta. ‘Peopleshouldknow about your involvement with Play On.’
Mo looked torn. ‘Maybe. Hopefully.’
‘And you’re right. Music is an essential part of the curriculum. I see firsthand at work how much the kids love it.’
Netta scooped another meatball onto her plate, turning her decision over and over. Balancing the pros and cons. The money to try for a baby. The crippling fear of exposure. The raging, uncontrollable, sinking ship of her attraction to Mo. The potential of Play On and the travesty it would be if Mo couldn’t go ahead with his plans. An answer charged through her fog of indecision, trampling her doubts into the ground.
‘I’d like to accept your offer,’ she said quickly, before she talked herself out of it again. ‘I’ll go to the gala with you. Sounds like there’s a lot at stake. For both of us.’
Mo dropped his fork and his head, exhaling hard. When he lifted his gaze to meet Netta’s, relief shone from every glorious crease and hollow of his face. ‘Thank you, Netta.’ He placed his hand over his heart. ‘Seriously.’
***
When they emerged from the restaurant the sleek black car was parked out the front, spattered with the raindrops that had fallen steadily while Netta and Mo had been swaddled in the warmth of Gianna’s kitchen.
‘That’s my driver,’ said Mo, nodding to the car. ‘I’ve got the final rehearsal for the gala to get to. She can drop you home, or … you could come watch, if you want?’
‘No, I’d rather go back to the hotel and read,’ Netta deadpanned before breaking into a grin. ‘OfcourseI want to come; are you kidding?’
Mo released a sharp exhale. ‘Right then, I’m officially nervous now!’
Netta rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right.’
Mo raised his eyebrows and shrugged as he opened the back door for Netta. She slid across the seat, making room for him to get in behind her.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Maplestone,’ said the driver with a brief glance over her shoulder.
‘Hi, Jac. This is Netta.’ He checked the time. ‘We’ve got half an hour to get to The Royal Albert Hall. Think we can make it?’
