Best of Bosses 2008(30)

‘Call me Nonna. Everyone calls me Nonna,’ Isabella said. ‘Now, come and sit down and tell me all about yourself. Gio, don’t just stand there, get the girl a drink.’

Fran didn’t get the chance to ask if there was anything she could do to help prepare lunch. Just as Gio had predicted, she was in for a grilling. And by the time Gio appeared with a cup of coffee, Isabella knew just about everything there was to know about her.

‘Nonna, dolcezza, give Fran a break.’ Gio set the mug of coffee on the side, scooped Fran out of the chair and sat in her place, drawing her on to his lap.

For a moment, Fran stiffened; he hadn’t warned her he was intending to do that. But then again, Gio’s family was incredibly tactile. Whenever one of them talked to you, there would be a hand on your arm, a gesture, a smile, a patted shoulder. And she was meant to be Gio’s girlfriend. Of course they’d expect her to sit on his lap.

So she relaxed back against him, resting her head on his shoulder. His arms were wrapped round her waist, holding her close, and she was acutely aware of the warmth of his body. His strength. His clean scent. The steady, even beat of his heart.

And then it hit her.

This was exactly what she wanted.

Being smack in the middle of a big, warm, noisy family. Accepted as one of them. With a strong, handsome man holding her protectively.

Oh, lord. If she’d known it would be like this, she would never have agreed to this pretend-girlfriend thing. Because right now she was setting herself up for a broken heart. This wasn’t for real, and there was no chance it would turn out that way either—Gio had already told her he didn’t want to settle down.

As if he sensed the sudden tension in her, his arms tightened round her, a private signal that everything was going to be fine. No doubt he thought she was just a bit worried about whether his family would believe their story; and that was fine by her. Better than him guessing what she was really thinking.

Lunch was a noisy affair, with everyone chattering and laughing, the clink of glass and the tinkling of cutlery against crockery. A typical Italian Sunday lunch, with a steaming tureen of minestrone followed by beef with crispy-edged fluffy roast potatoes, roasted peppers and aubergines, cavalo nero and all the trimmings.

And pudding…‘Oh, wow,’ Fran said as she tasted the first mouthful. ‘I’ve never tasted ice cream this good.’

‘Nando’s special. Reserved only for the family,’ Angela told her. ‘Hazelnut.’

Served with a pile of tiny strawberries and a splash of wild strawberry liqueur over the top. ‘It’s fantastic,’ Fran said, meaning it.

And the entire table beamed at her.

After lunch, Fran insisted on helping to clear away.

‘No, you’re a guest—you sit down with Gio,’ Marcie said.

‘She’s not a guest,’ Nonna said firmly. ‘She’s Gio’s girlfriend. One of us.’

Fran had to blink away the tears. How easily she’d been accepted among the Mazettis. And it felt really good to be in this family kitchen, with all the women washing up or drying dishes or putting things away or making coffee, chattering away with half-a-dozen different conversations going on at once and everyone laughing and telling little anecdotes about their week—breaking off every so often to look at a photograph on a mobile phone screen and coo over assorted babies and puppies and kittens.

So different from her own, much quieter and more reserved family.

And the weird thing was, Fran thought with a pang, she felt as if she belonged here.

She’d marry Gio tomorrow, just for his family.

And the sudden realisation made her dizzy. If he asked her, she’d marry Gio tomorrow.

For himself.

If Gio’s family noticed that she’d gone a bit quiet, they clearly assumed that she was a bit overwhelmed by the experience of meeting the Mazettis, because nobody made a comment. They simply included her in the conversation and asked her opinion on things.

They’d just finished clearing away when the doorbell went. A few moments later, Ric and Angela came in with the twins, who were clearly used to the Mazetti way of doing things because they came to everyone for a hug and a kiss—including Fran.

With their mop of curly dark hair and huge brown eyes, they were irresistible; before she knew it, she was sitting in a chair with both children on her lap, cuddling them and telling them a story.



‘She’s perfect,’ Isabella said softly to Gio.

‘Sorry, Nonna?’

‘Fran. She’s perfect. When you look at her, the emptiness disappears from your eyes.’

‘My eyes aren’t empty.’

‘Sweetheart, they have been for years. I know you’ve been unhappy. That’s why you work so hard, to make sure you don’t have time to feel.’