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He laughed properly then, a rich, deep sound that made her freeze to the spot, her eyes wide, locked to his face in that moment of amusement.
“I assure you, I have never had tofu in my life.”
“Well, that’s not something to boast about,” she responded quickly. “Tofu is an excellent addition to many dishes.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He was back to normal. Not laughing, but looking at her with eyes that seemed to follow her more closely than she knew was possible.
“Wait here,” she instructed, knowing she needed the breathing space of the kitchen, the familiarity of the furnishings and equipment in there. As if she doubted him, Charlotte cast a last glance over her shoulder before disappearing through the wide doors and flicking on a light. Alessio stayed at the bar; good. Her own tummy gave a little twist of hunger. Usually, Charlotte would have made herself something light at the end of the shift but being short-staffed, she hadn’t got around to it. Her plan had been to have an egg on toast up in her apartment, but now that she was here…
She chose one of the quickest things she could think of—ravioli—bringing a pot of water to the boil as she heated up some butter and sage then tossed in sliced mushrooms until they were glistening and soft, flicked off the frying pan and added her homemade ravioli to the water. Cooking it for only a few moments, she used a slotted spoon to remove the little parcels, adding them to the buttery mushrooms and tossing them gently before seasoning with a little salt and pepper, a dash of cream and some more sage.
Her stomach gave an appreciative growl as she reached for two bowls and dished up the pasta, before adding a few lashings of Parmesan cheese to the top and carrying them out to the bar. He was reading something on his phone, a frown on his face, so she paused, wondering if she was intruding, then told herself he was the one who’d shown up in the middle of the night—practically—demanding food and a bed!
“Dinner is served.”
He lifted his face in her direction, his expression momentarily lost, as though he hadn’t realised where he was, then, he was himself again, commanding and enigmatic.
“Thank you.”
Strangely, though it was normal, she hadn’t expected the small civility from him.
“Where shall we sit?” He asked, gesturing to the empty room.
“We?”
“You have two bowls.”
“Right.” Her teeth pressed into her lower lip, and she cursed herself for grabbing both on autopilot. She’d intended to eat her own dinner in the kitchen. “I don’t usually join guests.”
He pulled a face. “Is there some rule against pub staff fraternising with hotel guests?” He said with a hint of mockery. “Like doctors not being able to date their patients?”
He was mocking her, but that didn’t change the impact of his words, the idea ofdatingthis man. Any man, but particularlyhim.She felt her skin lift in a thousand goosebumps and looked away quickly, swallowing past a lump in her throat.
“Do you want company?” She asked, thinking that surely, he’d prefer to sit quietly or scroll his phone.
“Actually, yes. I do. Oblige me.”
Oblige me.The goosebumps had goosebump babies, all over her body and her heart began to rabbit fast and hard in her chest. “Oh.” She was about to gesture to one of the tables in the middle of the space, but he moved to the window booth and pressed his hand to the top.
“Here will do.”
“Right.” She carried the plates and forks to the table and placed them down, but it was impossible to do so without getting way too close to him, so she breathed in that addictive fragrance of his once more and felt a thousand blades of something unfamiliar but urgent pressing to her belly. Alarmed by the strength of that unknown response, she placed down the bowls and took a quick step backwards.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He glanced at the meal. “I’ll have a wine.”
“Red?”
He nodded once.
She moved back to the bar, grateful for the reprieve, though it was only momentary. He moved with her. “How long have you been working here?”
Of their own volition, his eyes strayed to the pictures pinned behind the bar, the signs of many happy nights, happy guests. Charlotte spared the pictures a glance before reaching for an open bottle of Shiraz and pouring two glasses—her own just a few sips to accompany the meal.
“It was three years in August.” Her heart gave a little pang as she remembered that awful time. The death of her brother and his wife, Michael and Maggie such wonderful parents to little Dashiell, and the only family she had. The madness that followed, of trying to work out how she could raise a child in her tiny room in Putney, on her pittance of a salary.
“My best friend grew up out here. She’s friends with the family that owns the place and put in a good word for me. I needed…for personal reasons, I needed to get out of London.”
