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She grimaced. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for my life story…”
“But I am willing to hear it regardless,” he said with a dip of his head, reaching across to lift both wine glasses and carry them to the table.
“It’s not a particularly interesting story, anyway,” she said with a small smile, feeling the heat of his gaze as she moved to the table. He watched her in a way that heated her skin, and he waited for her to sit down before he slid into the space opposite her, his frame too large for the ancient timber booth.
“This smells good.”
“It’s just ravioli,” she dismissed, but with a hint of pride because sheknewit was good. She’d perfected the recipe the first year she’d come to work at the pub, and it was now pretty famous in the district.
He pressed a fork into one of the pillows and Charlotte sat there, inexplicably nervous despite the dish’s renown, watching and waiting as he took his first bite, only exhaling when he made a small noise of appreciation and immediately stabbed another pillow.
“It’s very good.”
She smiled, pleased with his praise even when she knew it to be true. “Winnie, who owns the pub, she used to live in Italy and is incredibly fussy about the kinds of pasta we’re allowed to serve. She deplores bad Italian, so everything must pass her taste test before it goes on the menu.”
He was busy devouring ravioli, as though he hadn’t eaten in days, not hours, but even then, she had the sense he was keeping his eyes averted from her on purpose, as though the way he gripped his fork was unnaturally tight. She frowned, dismissing the instincts, lifting some of the pasta into her mouth and relaxing as the warmth and flavours hit her stomach. Delicious.
“The Cotswolds has an amazing selection of produce. I’m spoiled for choice. The mushrooms are all grown locally. When it’s off season, I use dried, which takes a little manipulation, but creates a different, nuttier version of the meal.”
He reached for his wine, sipping it, and now his eyes found hers with the full force of his curiosity. She found it hard to hold his gaze, but impossible to look away.
“You’re passionate about food.” It was a statement, said in that spiced accent of his, that made her insides leap with a strange, unfamiliar recognition.
“Yes.” She scooped some pasta into her mouth. “I always have been.”
He waited for her to continue.
“My mother died when I was a twelve. Dad was…” she searched for words, a sense of loyalty making it hard to be completely honest about her father’s failings. “Not particularly domesticatedbeforemum died, but afterwards,” Charlotte lifted her shoulders. “He was lost. My brother wasn’t much better—Michael was a scientist and had his head in a book and his brain in the clouds a lot of the time. Which left me,” she said with a flippant note that she hoped would hide the layers and layers of hurt she’d felt over time.
“And so you learned to cook?”
“I’d always cooked. With mum.” Damn it! Despite her best intentions, tears formed on her lashes. She blinked away quickly. “But the responsibility of it became mine.”
“You didn’t mind?”
She shook her head quickly, furtively wiping at one eye. “I loved it. It gave me something to do, something to focus on. A sense of purpose in the midst of the most devastating loss…” her words trailed off into nothing as she saw her mother as viscerally as if she were sitting right there with them.
“And then, I discovered, I was quite good at it,” she said with no false modesty—she had no time for it. “I got a part time job in a restaurant, Michelin-starred. It was a wonderful experience. I knew that I never wanted to do anything else.”
“A Michelin-starred restaurant in London is a long way from a place like this,” he said with a probing look. His bowl was empty, hers almost full still. She made a more concerted effort to catch up.
“True,” she was too busy moving food to her mouth to answer beyond that.
“Do you miss it?”
“London?”
He nodded. “And the commotion of a bigger kitchen.”
She lifted the last parcel of pasta to her mouth, savouring it before responding. “Yes. If there were only me to consider, I don’t think I’d have left.”
“But there’s someone else?” He probed, his eyes guarded.
“My—,” her throat thickened, the unexpected assault of emotions making it hard to speak.
He waited, sipping his wine, watching her from his seat across the booth, with an intelligently assessing look that would have taken her breath away if she’d had any brain space left to notice it.
“Nephew,” she finished softly. “He’s eight.”
