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She ordered a dry white, and the waiter, who had seen her talking with Gennaro, made obsequious noises and disappeared.
Gabriella grinned across at James. “Let’s hope it’s drinkable.”
Her words seemed to put him at ease, and he grinned back.
They sipped their wine, which James claimed to like, and she helped him choose a dish from the menu, explaining what each one was.
“My grandmother is still amazed at how simple family recipes are so popular in restaurants in Melbourne, and I’ve had to write to her to tell her it’s just the same here in London. I keep telling her she should open a restaurant of her own.”
They ate pasta and spoke about their families and their lives before London, keeping away from murder and kidnap and hostage-taking.
It felt good.
The food was what she needed—a taste of home.
Gennaro came to speak to them near the end of the meal, and she reached out and took one of his hands.
“It was good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Like home.”
He tapped his heart. “Then I am happy.” He turned to James. “It was your idea to come?”
James nodded.
Gennaro gave a snort, but there was approval in his gaze when he nodded back. He clapped his hands, making a production out of it. “I have tiramisu. On the house for you.”
The waiter appeared and put two dishes of tiramisu down in front of them.
Gabriella didn’t think she had room for dessert, but tiramisu was her favorite.
James cautiously dipped a spoon in and the look on his face when he swallowed made her laugh.
“What did he call it?” James asked.
“Tiramisu.”
“Yum.”
“It’s my favorite,” she said. She savored a few spoonfuls, then gave the rest of hers to James, who was very happy to help clean her bowl.
Maybe she would make some for Mr. Rodney’s homecoming tomorrow.
James came around to pull out her chair, and then she stood with Gennaro as the floor manager, a woman she suspected was Gennaro’s wife, rang up their bill.
“You should be out with an Italian man,” he told her in Italian. “If you don’t know any, I can help you there.”
She shook her head. “What’s wrong with a big, strong policeman?”
“He’s not Italian. And he’s a policeman,” Gennaro said with a shrug. “And he speaks English with a funny accent.”
She smiled. “He’s Welsh. And I speak English with a funny accent myself.”
“You are a beautiful Italian girl, you can do this. Him, no.” But he smiled back.
“I had plenty of good Italian boys to choose from in Melbourne,” she said. “I didn’t love any of them.”
“And you love him?” Gennaro shook his head.