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‘Sebastiano, you’ve gone pale,’ his grandmother said.
Sebastiano carefully put down his knife and fork. ‘Si; scusa, Nonna.’ He pushed back from the table. ‘Poppy and I have to leave.’
* * *
‘Is something wrong?’
Poppy nearly rolled her eyes at her own stupid question. Was the sky blue? Was the Arctic cold? Yes, but not as cold as Sebastiano’s expression as he stood before her with his hands on his hips.
‘Why did my grandparents say they were coming to London?’
‘I’m not sure.’
He folded his arms across his chest. ‘Why did you offer to cook them lunch?’
‘I didn’t mean to do that.’ She laughed nervously, not understanding where this was headed. ‘I’m a terrible cook but when they said they were coming to visit it just popped out.’
His dark brows climbed his forehead. ‘It just popped out?’
‘Yes. Why are you looking at me like that?’ She frowned. ‘What would you have had me say? That I wouldn’t have them over?’
‘No, of course not.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I just—I just wasn’t expecting it.’
Poppy gnawed on the inside of her cheek. Why wasn’t he taking her in his arms? Why wasn’t he kissing her? ‘And?’
He paced away from her and stared out of the window. ‘And what?’
‘And what else is wrong?’ Suddenly her heart felt heavy instead of light. ‘Are you regretting telling me that you want to continue our relationship? Is that why you’ve gone all broody?’
‘I haven’t gone all broody.’
‘Yes you have. And you were very quiet at dinner and now you can barely look at me.’
‘You’re exaggerating,’ he said with a small laugh. ‘And what happened to “Bastian”?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You called me Bastian in Venice.’
Well, she’d felt closer to him in Venice. The man in front of her now was the one who had greeted her yesterday morning after regretting the night before. The polite stranger. Poppy felt her stomach roil again. ‘Did I?’
‘Yes, you did. You were also very quick to jump at my offer to set you up in an apartment. Is that the place you were imagining cooking for my grandparents?’
‘Yes,’ she said evenly, suddenly understanding what was motivating Sebastiano’s strange behaviour. ‘I pictured a lovely galley kitchen with slate tiles and, eh, oak cabinets.’ Poppy wracked her brain for what else an expensive kitchen would have as hurt and outrage roiled inside her stomach. She had thought—she had imagined—that he had fallen for her too. ‘And a stainless steel splashback,’ she finished with a belligerent flourish.
‘Really?’
Sebastiano had come to a stop in front of her and Poppy wanted to hit him for not being able to see that she was hurting. That she wasn’t the kind of person he was silently accusing her of being. Hit him and rail at him for hurting her so much. For making her believe in fairy tales again. ‘Yes.’ She tilted her chin up, unable to stop herself. ‘And then I thought we’d retire to the living area and have wine on the marble terrace overlooking St Paul’s Cathedral. You are intending to get me an apartment overlooking St Paul’s Cathedral, aren’t you?’
‘Poppy?’
‘Yes, Bastian?’
‘I’m sorry.’ He crossed the room and put his arms around her. ‘I shouldn’t have said what I did.’
Poppy careful
ly stepped out of his embrace. ‘No, you shouldn’t have.’
