This couldn’t be happening.
Shouldn’t be happening.
If she hugged him goodbye, that would be it. He was carrying her back to his flat and to hell with the taxi driver.
But she didn’t. She just gave him a really, really bright smile—as if she were truly delighted to be going back to her own space. ‘Thanks for everything, Gio.’
The door closed.
And the taxi drove off.
Gio walked up the stairs to his flat. And even though there wasn’t actually that much missing—Fran, being neat and tidy, hadn’t taken up much room in the first place—the place seemed empty. Echoey.
The whole heart of it had gone. With Fran.
He couldn’t settle to anything that evening. Although he went through the motions of cooking a meal, dinner for one felt completely wrong. Like a discord. In the end, he stopped toying with his food and scraped it into the bin. Music didn’t make him feel any better, because he kept thinking of the times he’d played to Fran, the light in her eyes. And there was nothing on television.
He couldn’t face going to bed. It was too big, too wide, too empty without Fran in his arms. So he sat on the sofa, flicking channels aimlessly and just wishing. Wishing that he’d never been stupid enough to let her go.
Not home. Not even a flat. After the space she’d shared at Gio’s, it felt more like a broom cupboard. Not her broom cupboard, either. Fran hadn’t yet replaced her ruined books, and although she’d managed to salvage her photographs there wasn’t anything to stand them on. So she hadn’t unpacked them and the place felt as impersonal as a hotel room.
Her wardrobe rail had dried out, so she mechanically replaced her clothes on the hangers. She had to clench her jaw hard when she unpacked the party dress—the dress she’d been wearing when Gio had first kissed her properly, when he’d sung for her. The dress she’d thought was ruined, but Angela’s friend had salvaged. It would definitely have to go to a charity shop. She couldn’t handle the memories.
So much for thinking what they’d shared was special. He’d hardly been able to wait to get his space back. He’d even offered to help her paint the walls, he’d been that keen for her to go.
She dragged in a breath. Her world had collapsed before. This time it was going to be a hell of a lot harder to build it all back up again.
But she’d do it. She’d get there. And never, ever again would she lose her heart to someone.
Even turning the shower thermostat to near-on freezing didn’t make Gio feel any more awake the next morning. He’d slept so badly that he felt hungover—as if he’d drunk way too much cheap red wine. Paracetamol went a little way to muffling the pain in his head, but he felt lousy.
Today, he’d talk to Fran. Tell her how he felt. Lay his heart on the line and ask her to move back in with him.
But Fran walked into the office dead on nine o’clock, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as if everything was perfectly all right with her world. ‘Good morning.’
And the words Gio had planned to say stuck in his throat. She was obviously quite happy with the situation. Pleased to be back in her own space. So if he asked her to move back in with him, it was obvious that she’d say no.
‘Morning,’ he muttered.
If she noticed he looked like hell, she didn’t comment. Simply slid into her seat and started working through the morning’s post.
And Gio’s world turned just that little bit darker.
How the hell could he stay with her in the office? No way was he going to be able to get any work done. His concentration was shot to pieces. All he wanted to do was wrap his arms round her and kiss her stupid. And she was acting as if nothing had ever happened between them—that they’d only ever had a business relationship.
He couldn’t handle this.
‘Gotta go to Docklands,’ he muttered, and left. Before he did something stupid.
Like beg.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GOING to Isabella’s farewell party at Netti’s restaurant was the hardest thing Fran had ever had to do. To walk in, greet the Mazettis and chat with them as if nothing was wrong, when she and Gio had barely spoken to each other all week and things were decidedly awkward between them.
She knew he found the situation as difficult as she did, because he’d avoided her. There had always been a meeting he’d needed to go to. Or a problem at one of the branches he needed to sort out. Or something to do with the franchise. He hadn’t even picked up the phone to talk to her; he’d sent her text messages or emails instead. They’d agreed by voicemail that they’d arrive separately at the party; their cover story was that he’d be ‘late’ because she hadn’t been able to get him out of the office.