She woke early the next morning and, after breakfast, she and Louisa loaded outdated food from the pantry into even more trash bags.
Wiping sweat from her brow, Louisa shook her head at the bag of garbage she’d just hauled to the growing pile by the door. “We don’t even know what day to set out the trash.”
Busy sweeping the now-empty pantry, Dani said, “You could always ask Nico.”
Louisa rolled her eyes. “I’m not tromping over to his villa to ask about trash.”
“You could call him. I have his card.” She frowned. “Or Rafe has his card. I could ask for it back tonight.”
“No, thanks. I’ll figure this out.”
“Or maybe I could ask the girls at the restaurant? Given that we’re so close to Monte Calanetti, one of them probably lives in the village. She’ll know what day the trash truck comes by.”
Louisa brightened. “Yes. Thank you. That would be great.”
But Dani frowned as she swept the last of the dirt onto her dustpan. Louisa’s refusal to have anything to do with Nico had gone from unusual to impractical. Still, it wasn’t her place to say anything.
She dressed for work in the dark trousers and white shirt Rafe required and drove to the restaurant. Walking in, she noticed that two of the chefs were different, and two of the chefs she was accustomed to seeing weren’t there. The same was true in the dining room. Allegra was nowhere to be seen and in her place was a tall, slim waitress named Mila, short for Milana, who told Daniella it was simply Allegra’s day off and probably the chefs’, too.
“Did you think they’d been fired?” Mila asked with a laugh.
Dani shrugged. “With our boss, you never know.”
Mila laughed again. “Only Chef Rafe works twelve hours a day, seven days a week.”
“I guess I should ask for a schedule, then.”
She turned toward the kitchen but Mila stopped her. “Do yourself a favor and ask Emory about it.”
Thinking that sounded like good advice, she nodded and walked into the kitchen. Emory stood at a stainless-steel prep table in the back of the huge, noisy, delicious-smelling room. Grateful that Rafe wasn’t anywhere in sight, she approached the sous-chef.
“Cara!” he said, opening his arms. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if there was a schedule.”
The short, bald man smiled. “Schedule?”
“I’m never really sure when I’m supposed to come in.”
“A maître d’ works all shifts.”
At the sound of Rafe’s voice behind her, she winced, sucked in a breath and faced him. “I can’t work seven days a week, twelve hours a day. I want this month to do some sightseeing. Otherwise, I could have just gone back to New York City.”
He smiled and said, “Ah.”
And Daniella’s heart about tripped over itself in her chest. He had the most beautiful, sexy smile she had ever seen. Directed at her, it stole her breath, weakened her knees, scared her silly.
“You are correct. Emory will create a schedule.”
Surprised at how easy that had been, and not about to hang around when his smile was bringing out feelings she knew were all wrong, she scampered out of the kitchen. Within minutes, Rafe came into the dining room to open Mancini’s doors. As he passed her, he smiled at her again.
When he disappeared behind the kitchen doors, she blew out her breath and collapsed against the podium. What was he doing smiling at her? Dear God, was Louisa right? Was he interested in her?
She paused. No. Rafe was too business oriented to be attracted to an employee. This wasn’t about attraction. It was about her finally finding her footing with him. He hadn’t argued about getting her a schedule. He’d smiled because they were beginning to get along as employer and employee.
Guests began arriving and she went to work. There were enough customers that the restaurant felt busy, but not nearly as busy as they were for dinner. She seated an American couple and walked away but even before she reached the podium, they waved her back.
She smiled. “Having trouble with the Italian?”
The short dark-haired man laughed. “My wife teaches Italian at university. We actually visit every other year. Though this is our first time at Mancini’s.”
“Well, a very special welcome to you, then. What can I help you with?”
He winced. “Actually, we were kind of hoping to just have soup or a salad, but all you have is a full menu.”
“Yes. The chef loves his drama.”
The man’s wife reached over and touched his arm. “I am sort of hungry for this delicious-sounding spaghetti. Maybe we can eat our big meal now and eat light at dinner.”
Her husband laughed. “Fine by me.”
Dani waved Gio over to take their orders, but a few minutes later, she had a similar conversation with a group of tourists who had reservations that night at a restaurant in Florence. They’d stopped at Mancini’s looking for something light, but Rafe’s menu only offered full-course meals.
With the lunchtime crowd thinned and two of the three waitresses gone until dinner, Dani stared at the kitchen door. If she and Rafe really had established a proper working relationship, shouldn’t she tell him what customers told her?
Of course, she should. She shouldn’t be afraid. She should be a good employee.
She headed for the kitchen. “May I speak with you, Chef Rafe?”
His silver-gray eyes met hers. “Yes?”
She swallowed. It was just plain impossible not to be attracted to this guy. “It’s... I... Do you want to hear the things the customers tell me?”
Leaning against his prep table behind him, holding her gaze, he said, “Yes. I always want the opinions of customers.”
She drank in a long breath. The soft, seductive tone of his voice, the way he wouldn’t release her gaze, all reminded her of Louisa’s contention that he was attracted to her. The prospect tied her tongue until she reminded herself that they were at work. And he was dedicated to his diners. In this kitchen, that was all that mattered.
“Okay. Today, I spoke with a couple from the US and a group of tourists, both of whom only wanted soup or salad for lunch.”
“We serve soup and salad.”
“As part of a meal.”
“So they should eat a meal.”
“That was actually their point. They didn’t want a whole meal. Just soup and salad.”
Rafe turned to Emory, his hands raised in question as if he didn’t understand what she was saying.
She tried again. “Look. You want people to come in for both lunch and dinner but you only offer dinners on the menu. Who wants a five-course meal for lunch?”
The silver shimmer in Rafe’s eyes disappeared and he gaped at her. “Any Italian.”
“All right.” So much for thinking he was attracted to her. The tone of his voice was now definitely all business and when it came to his business, he was clearly on a different page than she was. But this time she knew she was right. “Maybe Italians do like to eat that way. But half your patrons are tourists. If they want a big meal, they’ll come at dinnertime. If they just want to experience the joy that is Mancini’s, they’ll be here for lunch. And they’ll probably only want a salad. Or maybe a burger.”
“A