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“There are a couple of incredible vineyards along the VF stops in Tuscany. I took these first two photographs in Barberino Val d’Elsa,” Gavin said, so quietly she nearly missed it.
“What?” Surprise spurted in her chest.
“Barberino Val d’Elsa, just south of Florence.” He pointed to the photographs closest to the entryway. “The chianti is unreal.”
“Wait a second.” Sloane leaned in so close that her breath fogged the glass, her pulse jackhammering through her veins. “I remember this village! There was a little hillside chapel, with a courtyard garden in the back, and a low wall, made up of these really old stacked stones I was sure would topple at the first sign of a stiff breeze.”
Gavin nodded, his eyes going a shade warmer. “Definitely Val d’Elsa. That chapel is a couple hundred years old. Last I saw, the wall is still standing, but barely.”
The memory of the courtyard, with its heavy slab benches and dark, flowering vines, flitted back to Sloane’s mind like the soft cotton of a whisper, and she tackled it with glee. “God, how could I have not made the connection? It’s just past this grove of trees, right here.” She tapped the edge of the frame. “I must’ve outlined the first eight chapters of my debut novel sitting by that wall!”
Gavin cleared his throat in a masculine rumble. “So, ah, that’s what you were doing last night? You know, with all the crumpled-up papers?” He indicated the floor with one hand, and the stark reminder of Sloane’s failed attempts brought her squarely back to the present.
“Yeah. Obviously the process works better in some places than others.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.” He looked so truly remorseful that she had no choice but to smile. This pity-party crap was totally overrated, and anyway, she’d be back in Europe again, scribbling away before she knew it.
“No worries, boss. The next book always comes from somewhere.”
Sloane’s eyes dashed over the photograph one more time, where dappled sunlight filtered through the curling fingers of the grapevines and the weatherworn stakes securing them tightly into the ground.
She’d found inspiration plenty of times before. She’d find it again, no problem. Just as soon as she landed in Greece, she’d be as right as a cocktail on a Friday night.
Gavin scratched his head, and the slightly ruffled look it left behind struck her as oddly endearing. “Well, it might not be ideal, but you’re welcome to use the breakfast nook in the kitchen if you think it’ll work better than the couch. The printer is right there in the kitchen, too, if you ever need a hard copy of something. You’re welcome to use the Wi-Fi, if Bree didn’t hook you up already. Then you’d at least have a little bit more workspace. Maybe it’ll help.”
She bit back a full-blown laugh so as not to wake Bree. The simplicity of the offer was ironic enough to overwhelm her, as if moving a few feet and having a little more room to stretch out would give her a whole new perspective. Hell, she’d moved her writing spot from one end of Pine Mountain to the other for a whole year, and it had given her nothing but stale ideas she couldn’t use. Sloane opened her mouth to deliver a sarcastic response, something to the tune of if-only-it-were-so-easy, when the look on Gavin’s face stopped her cold. His expression flickered with genuine niceness, not the cool indifference she’d seen for much of yesterday, and without thinking, she replied, “Thanks. I’ll definitely give that a try.”
* * *
There werea couple of tried and true places to catch a quick nap in between Saturday shifts at La Dolce Vita, provided you weren’t claustrophobic or terribly picky. At his current level of sleep deprivation, Gavin was neither. Not only had he tossed and turned trying to burn the slideshow of Sloane’s ridiculously soft skin and full, hot lips from his short-term memory, but Bree had had a nightmare, her third one this week.
Hearing her cry from across the hall in the middle of the night was hard enough. Her refusal to talk about it, not even to let him comfort her, was nearly unbearable. But no matter how hard he tried, she uttered the same terse “I’m fine” before cranking her mouth shut and turning over in bed, and he had no choice but to give in to her silence and walk away. He’d given up even asking, simply padding across the floorboards to stand in her doorframe whenever he heard her sharp cries, waiting for her to acknowledge him and hoping her words would change.
They never did.
Gavin shook himself back to reality with a groggy blink. If he didn’t get some sleep in the ninety-minute lull between his lunch and dinner responsibilities, he was going to end up making Night of the Living Dead look like a frigging beauty pageant. He maneuvered past the swinging doors at the pass, through the hushed quiet of the industrial kitchen and past the office where he heard the indistinct murmur of Carly’s voice. With a silent prayer for solitude, Gavin made a beeline for the small but usually quiet staff lounge.
Mercifully, the lights were off, and he made his way into the lounge with an exhale of relief. Only fragments of muted daylight filtered past the blinds, and even those had turned a heavy gray with a cold front he’d heard some lunch-goers talking about. Not that the daylight mattered. He would probably fall asleep ten seconds after his head hit the throw pillow on the couch even if the sun itself showed up in the room for a song and dance.
Gavin bit back a groan as his frame sank to the cushions. His body was so overjoyed at no longer being vertical that he didn’t realize he wasn’t alone until the gruff sound of a throat being cleared interrupted his bliss.
“Oh, sorry.” He levered himself up from his halfway reclined position on the couch, squinting at the well-muscled figure sitting in the far corner of the shadows.
The hulking outline could only belong to one person on La Dolce Vita’s staff. Adrian Holt might wear chef’s whites and whip up elegant meals with one tattooed arm tied behind his back, but the guy could easily pass for a pro wrestler turned lumberjack. Not the kind of person whose space you wanted to invade.
“It’s cool. I was just trying to catch some quiet.” Adrian’s eyes flickered, barely visible in the low light of the lounge but for the stainless steel piercing marking his dark brow. “Chef’s driving me nuts with down-to-the-wire wedding plans, so I came in here to escape. I’ll be glad after next Saturday, when she’s back to normal again.”
“Yeah, a guy can only take so much discussion about bridesmaids’ dresses and ‘high impact floral arrangements’ before he’s tempted to lose his mind,” Gavin agreed, hooking air quotes around the words.
“Planned a wedding recently, have you?” Adrian’s response was laden with sarcasm, but it arrowed into Gavin’s chest all the same. Damn it, he’d said too much. The thought of airing out those memories, even in a vague admission to a gruff coworker who probably wouldn’t ask questions anyway, still made him uneasy.
“Just stuff I’ve overheard. Carly’s wedding plans are kind of hard to miss.” As tired as he was, Gavin pondered forgoing sleep in favor of a good, stiff drink. “Although I have to say, Chef seems pretty laid-back about it, as far as brides go.”
Adrian nodded, a quick jerk of his platinum-dyed head. “Fair enough. She’s too frickin’ happy to go full-on Bridezilla, anyway.” They sat in silence for a minute, and Gavin’s lingering exhaustion left him unprepared for the shift in subject.
“Hey, she told me you hired Sloane to babysit your sister, huh? Interesting move.”
His gut tightened, and he sat up straighter against the plush couch cushions. “Carly’s the one who suggested it, and so far it’s working out. I take it you know Sloane.”
