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“Would you like a starter?”
A shake of her head.
“All right.” I study the options until Marco comes back with the champagne and asks if we’re ready to order.
“Vegetable risotto for the lady,” I tell him, closing the menu, “and Chicken Parmigiano for me, please.”
“No starters or pasta or side dishes?” he asks as he pours the champagne into two tall glasses.
“It’s all I could do to get her to choose one dish,” I reply. “Maybe if the wind’s in the right direction I’ll be able to talk her into a dessert.”
He chuckles, leaves the bottle in the bucket, and goes off to place our order.
“I’m sorry,” she says. Her eyes glisten. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
“You’re going to have a great meal, that’s all, and sit and talk to me. Don’t pay any attention to anyone else.” I tear off a piece of the flatbread and dip it in the olive oil, then the salt before eating it. Then I gesture to her to do the same.
She copies me and eats a tiny piece. “Mmm. That’s good.”
“Eat a bit before you have any champagne or you’ll fall off your chair with all the adrenaline running through you right now.”
She does as she’s told and eats half the flatbread with me before finally taking a sip of the champagne. She laughs. “The bubbles go up my nose.”
I smile. “Do you like it?”
“Mmm. It tastes of almonds. And citrus.”
“It does. Well spotted. I forgot that the commune has vineyards. Do you make your own wine there?”
“No, we don’t have those facilities. We have a long-standing partnership with a local winemaker, and we sell the grapes to him to process. He always gives us a case or two of the wine when it’s ready.”
“Do you drink spirits? Whiskey, vodka?”
She shakes her head. “Dad preferred not to have them anywhere on the commune. Alcohol has often played a part in the lives of the women who come to us, and so it’s best if it’s not readily available. We offer them a glass of wine with Sunday lunch and that’s about it.”
“We’ve led very different lives.”
“Just a bit.” She smiles.
She looks amazing tonight. The long dress clings to her figure when she moves, and I’m pretty sure she’s not wearing a bra, and maybe no underwear either. I’m trying not to think about it because I don’t want a hard-on at the table, but it’s difficult when she’s sitting in front of me, all soft and sexy.
“I have something for you,” I tell her. I slide my hand into my trouser pocket, extract the item, and place it on the table. It’s a small soft bear with a heart in its hands that says ‘I love you more than chocolate.’
“His name is Bearcub,” I say. “That’s what my name means—bearcub.”
She stares at the bear. Then her expression softens, and she picks it up. “For me?”
“Yeah.”
“I wondered what that lump was in your trousers. I thought you were pleased to see me.”
We both laugh.
“Thank you,” she says graciously. “I love it.” She places it on the table to her side, then returns her gaze to me and studies me with interest. “You look a lot like your father.”
I scowl. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Why not?”