“Isn’t it always about a woman?” He stood from his chair. “Or an arranged marriage?”
I nodded, understanding his position.
“More wine? Lunch should be delivered soon.” Fabio took my glass and went into his gourmet kitchen.
“Yes, I have nowhere to be.” I’d planned to stay for lunch. Paolo had dropped me off and went to watch the bistro. Just to make sure Isla was working.
Sitting there in Fabio’s open-spaced room and gazing at the Golden Gate Bridge, I realized what I needed to do about Isla.
Apologize.
Ask for a second chance.
Maybe declare my love.Maybe.
And if she refused me, I would make her an offer she couldn’t refuse. But I wouldn’t think about that now.
Isla was a reasonable woman, and I had a feeling she still loved me.
11
ISLA
Fridays werea madhouse at West End. I entered from the back, dialing into the clinking of pots and pans and Falina shouting orders from the stove. For a tiny thing, she had a booming voice, even the men were afraid of her.
I was beyond grateful she wasn’t around when Ciro interrupted my day yesterday. It was bad enough that Keri was present. By now, Falina probably heard Keri’s exaggerated story about the rich, handsome man who wanted to take me to dinner.
Stop thinking about Ciro. Be glad he didn’t come back.
While Falina barked orders, her hand maintained a slow, steady speed as she stirred a whisk in the saucepan. Her head whipped from left and right, to make sure her staff were doing the tasks she’d given them.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Falina had a pair of eyes in the back of her head. The woman seriously saw everything that went on in her kitchen.
I was fifteen minutes late,again. It wasn’t the end of the world, but every minute counted in my busy catering station.
“Isla,” Falina hollered the second she spotted me. I tensed instantly. “We’re swamped today with two catered lunches, and Keri called in sick.” She rolled her eyes. “I need you to fill in for her.”
I groaned low in my throat.Damn you, Keri. I knew going out for drinks with Mr. IT was a bad idea. She’d done this very thing far too many times. She must enjoy torturing me.
“Sure! No problem,” I replied, except covering for Keri meant working until closing. I threw my purse and coat into my locker and sent Alba a text.
Isla: Heads up. Covering for Keri today. 13hr shift. Yay! NOT!!!
Alba: No prob. Pippa will be fine. Keep your chin up.
Isla: Thanks. You’re the best!
Guilt spread through my chest. I hadn’t mentioned Ciro’s surprise visit to Alba. Figured if I didn’t breathe a word of him, maybe he hadn’t really been in West End. Maybe it had only been my active imagination.
I laughed at my ridiculousness. Denying Ciro was here or that he even existed was plain stupid. Pippa was proof he most indeed existed. Her father’s blood ran through her.
Putting my phone into my back pocket, I hit the ground running. The bistro opened at eleven, and it was my job to have the salads and soups prepared. And by damn, they’d be ready.
Curse words bounced off the walls in my head, ones I wouldn’t say out loud. Thinking them was enough. Once the naughty words came and went, I inhaled a deep breath. Icouldn’t stay angry at Keri or Falina, or even Ciro. If Ciro was gone for good, I’d forgive this infraction.
And there was a silver lining for covering Keri’s shift: overtime pay.
I got this. Overtime moolah for the win!
