Once he’d piled a plate with assorted canapés and dips, they found a quiet corner in the grounds. Gio looked at the bench, then at Fran’s dress. ‘Some of that varnish is peeling. I don’t want it ruining your dress. Better sit on my lap.’
From another man, it would be a cheesy excuse. From Gio, it was practical common sense. So when he set the plate down on the bench beside them, she acquiesced without making a fuss, settling herself on his lap and resting one hand on his shoulder for balance.
The fact that his hand was resting on the curve of her waist really shouldn’t be sending these little shivers through her body, she thought. He’d only done it to make sure she didn’t accidentally slide off his lap. And she really shouldn’t get used to being close to him like this. Close and personal.
Striving to keep her voice normal, she said, ‘It’s quite an evening.’
‘When we were kids, we used to have a bouncy castle and a barbecue in the back garden. But as we grew older and the family’s grown bigger, Mum decided to hire a hall and a band.’ He sighed. ‘To be honest, I’d much rather have a quiet night out somewhere. See a good film or a show. But Mum, Nonna and the girls really enjoy it. They love planning the party and getting dressed up and having an excuse to get everyone together and talk so much that they end up with sore throats the next day.’
‘So you put up with it for their sake?’ Fran guessed.
‘Yeah.’ Gio shrugged. ‘Just call me Saint Giovanni.’
She gave in to the temptation to stroke his cheek. Freshly shaven. Smooth and soft and sensual. ‘You’re a good man,’ she said.
He turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss into her palm—like the way she’d pressed a kiss into his palm that afternoon when he’d kissed her on her sofa. ‘Not really. I let my family down once—at the time when they needed me most. I promised myself I would never do that again.’
‘Everyone else forgave you long ago—if they ever blamed you in the first place.’ Which, having met his family, she very much doubted. ‘Your dad’s heart attack wasn’t your fault. When are you going to forgive yourself, Gio?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘Can we change the subject, please?’
This wasn’t the time or the place to push him. ‘Sure. What do you want to talk about?’
‘Dunno.’
He looked utterly lost, and it made her heart ache. She leaned forward and kissed the tip of his nose.
He looked up at her, his eyes dark, and his hands tightened round her waist. ‘Why did you do that?’
She opted for honesty. ‘Because you’re hurting, Gio, and I want to make you feel better.’
She couldn’t help staring at his mouth. Even though he was in a bleak mood, right now, there was still a tiny curve upwards at the corner of his lips. That irrepressible, funny man she’d grown to l—
Whoops. She was getting too much into this role of being Gio’s girlfriend. Better remember she was just his office manager, and this was just for show. ‘Talk to me,’ she said softly. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’
He shook his head. ‘Just ignore me. I’m in a funny mood.’
She stroked his face again, and her skin tingled at the contact. ‘I’m going to quote Nonna back at you. “A problem shared is a problem halved.” You helped me when I hit a bad patch. Now you’re having a bad patch and it’s my turn to help you. So tell me what’s put you in that mood. Is it work?’
‘No.’ He sounded very definite.
‘What, then?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just this feeling of something…’ He shook his head in obvious frustration. ‘Something missing, I suppose. I can’t explain it. If I knew what it was, I could do something about it. But there’s just this black hole staring at me.’
‘Your music?’ she guessed.
‘No. I still play, for me.’
And he’d played for her, too.
‘You could go back to it. You don’t have to expand the café chain—it’s doing fine as it is. Take a sabbatical,’ she suggested. ‘Be a musician.’
‘How? Busking on street corners?’
She shook her head. ‘There’s nothing to stop you playing a concert once in a while. An arts centre, a gallery—even in Giovanni’s. You’re thinking of opening one evening a week in Holborn for the book group. Why not open another evening a week as a classical music night, maybe at Charlotte Street? Play the music you love for people?’
He took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m good enough, any more.’