“It’s perfect,” I hear my dad say. “Non tutte le ciambelle riescono col buco.”
“Not all dougŸuts come out with a hole,” I say, giggling, as I roll another collapsing tortellini.
Mum fills out the specials board, and they haggle over the prices. Then Mum leans over the bar and they kiss.
“So, what do you reckon, Olive, darling?” Dad says. “Reckon your old dad could be on TV like Jamie Oliver?”
“More like Gary Rhodes,” says my mum with a laugh, as she slides in the till tray full of change, before opening the reservations folder and double-checking the table settings. “Isn’t it more like atravelshow they want you to do, Nicky? Gone six weeks at a time?”
“Papa?” I gasp. But not at him being gone. About the excitement of him being on television.
“It’s time, Nicky,” Mum says with a soft smile.
She always said that just before opening.It’s time.
“This is going to be the start of something big, Olive,” Dad says, starting to clear up. “A little six-part series, then a guest spot on morning television, a string of new restaurants, and then, hopefully, that cookbook!” Dad beams in a slightly unhinged way, which makes me giggle.
I smile at the memory, as a warm feeling wraps around my heart.There were good times, I think.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I took so long to come back,” I say softly, eyes closed, the sound echoing into darkness.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
My eyes shoot open, heart racing.
“Hello?” the voice says again. “Olive?”
I snap my head around, and there, standing in the dimly lit kitchen entrance, is Leonardo Ricci. He takes a step forward and his movement triggers a motion sensor light in the back so his tall body falls into silhouette, and I cannot make out the features on his face. I hold my hand up to shield my eyes from the light.
“Yes,” I say. “Leo?”
“Yeah. Hi. Sorry to give you a fright. What... what are you doing here?” he says. “It’s after one.”
“What areyoudoing here?” I shoot back, sliding a hand up to my heart as if to slow it. As my fingers graze the cotton of my sweatshirt, I realize the state I’m in. A hastily tugged-on outfit after a fitful attempt at sleep. There have been many sleepless nights lately.
“I forgot my house keys,” he says, moving out of the light and walking behind the bar to retrieve them. I step backward from the bar, creating even more distance between us. Leo pauses, holding his keys aloft as evidence. “I’m sorry to disturb you, I didn’t expect...”
His voice trails off.Does he know yet?
“I picked up the keys today,” I say, feeling him out.
“Right. Of course,” he says, nodding slowly.
Maybe he does know.
“Just wanted to take a look,” I explain, turning my head toward the dining area. “I see nothing’s changed.”
I don’t mean to sound disparaging; it just comes out that way. But it really hasn’t. In fact, the only change is the clear degradation of the fittings. The little nicks I could feel on the once high-polished bar top, the scuffed floor, the chipped paint I can clearly see with the light on in the kitchen.
“Oh,” he says, shoving his keys into his pocket.
The motion light snaps off and we are plunged back into darkness; it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust. When they do, Leo leans forward and rests his elbows on the bar, his arms crossed. His T-shirt pulls tight at his biceps, his shoulders round with muscle and wide. He looks so completely at home behind that bar, his black hair falling forward into his eyes from a crestingcowlick, his eyes framed by long lashes and his jaw strong, but not overly so. In fact, he’s incredibly sexy in this light.
“Can I get you a drink or something?” Leo says, nodding toward the pint glasses stacked up high next to the beer taps. “Although I’m not sure if it feels right tocelebrateas such.” I see a muscle tick in his jaw.
“No drink,” I say quickly.
Leo nods, biting the inside of his cheek, as he considers his next words.
