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‘No. It might be under Vitello, though?’
The man let out a sarcastic snort that I probably wasn’t meant to hear. ‘Oh, one of those girls, hey,’ he muttered under his breath.
One of those girls?What is that supposed to mean?
I looked at my phone – 8:10am – and tried to ignore a rising surge of panic.What on earth am I doing here?I fought the urge to leave as I looked around for Patrick and caught sight of the panoramic beach views. The restaurant was buzzing with coffee snobs and mimosa drinkers who gave off laidback holiday vibes as they sat unfazed in their seats, waiting for their breakfasts.Where was he?Oh, please don’t tell me he’s a no-show.
I swallowed hard and turned back to the waiter. ‘Yes, can you check, please?’ I said, not quite making eye contact.
‘Mr Vitello is on the list, but he only booked forone.’ This time, his face was almost territorial.
‘We were just planning to have a coffee. He, uh, invited me last night.’
‘That’s what they all say.’ He sniffed, which was at least a slight improvement over his snort.
The door swung back open and in walked Patrick, just in time to save me from my embarrassment. He was wearing a white linen shirt with the first two buttons undone and caramel-coloured shorts folded at the knees, paired with tasselled loafers. His leathery scent drifted in the air, mixed with a hint of ocean breeze.My God, his body’s good. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him – he was just tall and lean. At least six feet.
‘Mr Vitello. Good morning, sir,’ the waiter said, almost bowing.
‘Ciao, Simon. Is my table ready fortwo?’ He held up two fingers.
‘Yes, right this way.’ The waiter grabbed two leather-bound menus from behind the service desk and walked us past the bar. He kept walking until he stopped at a table set in linen with polished cutlery, completed with beige rattan dining chairs. At the heart of the table was a flickering tealight candle in a stylish glass. Our spot had the best views of the sparkling ocean through the windows. The waiter pulled out Patrick’s chair and placed a linen napkin on his lap, then did the same for me.
‘The usual, Mr Vitello?’ the man asked.
‘Si.’He nodded.
The waiter ran over to the bar without asking me for my order.
Patrick raised his hand and waved for the man to come back over.
‘Yes?’ He came running back so quickly it was almost laughable.
‘You didn’t get my friend Naomi’s order.’ He gestured his hand over to me.
‘Oh, my apologies, Mr Vitello.’
‘What can I get for you, miss?’ he quickly asked as Patrick watched him.
‘I’ll get a vanilla latte, please.’ I smiled.
‘Of course.’
He didn’t bother to write down my order and dashed back over to the bar. I listened as the coffee beans were being ground.
Patrick turned his green eyes back to me, and I felt my stomach flutter. ‘How are you, Naomi? That colour really suits you, by the way.’ He peered down at my dress.
‘Oh, really?’ I adjusted the top of my pink dress so that my boobs bulged slightly less. ‘If I am perfectly honest, I feel really awkward.’
‘Don’t worry about him. He’s always strange.’ He smoothed his dark, tousled hair with his palm and gave a warm smile.
‘Do people always address you so formally, Patrick? I’m not really used to this. I kind of feel like I’m in a business meeting or something.’ I felt my neck go red again and placed my hand on the spot to cover the evidence of my obvious nerves.
Patrick laughed. ‘That’s adorable. Unfortunately, yes, they do, but it helps with business, so I play along.’ He flashed his perfectly white, straight teeth.
His honesty was refreshing, and I relaxed as the conversation began to flow effortlessly, as if we were close friends.
‘So, what’s the usual that you order here?’ I asked.
