At the sound of the door closing, Rafe spun from the prep table. His silver-gray eyes widened. His turned-down lips lifted into a rarely seen smile.
“Michele!”
He bounded over, enfolding Mic into an embrace that could only be described as the hug of a bear. Then he pushed him away. “What are you doing here?”
“You don’t think my favorite mentor could open a restaurant and I would stay away?”
Rafe studied him, those gray eyes always astute. “It took you long enough to come by.”
Michele deliberately avoided the unspoken question of why he never returned to his hometown. “I wanted to make sure you had at least one Michelin star before I tested the food.”
“One?” Rafe batted a hand. “Bah! You underestimate me. Everyone underestimates me.”
No one underestimated Chef Rafe. Aspiring chefs emulated him. Apprenticing chefs wanted to be him. Secretly in love with the tall, handsome chef, critics worked to find things wrong with his food, his restaurant, so they wouldn’t be accused of favoritism. Chef Rafe’s star was on the rise … as long as he could keep his temper in check.
“So you are here for food?”
“My aunt and uncle moved south. While I have a little time, I told them I’d stay in their condo until it sold.” He glanced around. “But that risotto does smell nice.”
“Nice! I will have you arrested for insulting me.”
Mic laughed. A feeling of normalcy, rightness, rippled through his blood and muscles. He loved teasing his friend. “Okay. It does smell amazing.”
Rafe dropped his arm to Mic’s shoulders. “It is good to see you, Mic.” He turned them to the door. “Now, we find you a table. And I will treat you to food so tempting, so brilliant, you will fall to your knees and thank your maker.”
Mic laughed again.
He followed Rafe to the dining room. It was exactly as Mic pictured it would be. Though Rafe had added a modern kitchen to the back of the old farm house he’d renovated, he’d kept the dining room true to the house’s origins. Antique tables covered in white linen cloths sat on earth-tone ceramic tile floors. The rustic shutters on the huge window in the back were open, revealing the resting countryside of Tuscany in January. The bar by the kitchen bustled with business as waitresses shouted wine orders.
“Are you the chef?”
Rafe stopped at the question from the customer. Behind him, Mic stopped too.
“Si.”
The customer smiled. “Your spaghetti sucks.”
Rafe scoffed. “My spaghetti is superb. If you disagree, your palate … how you say? … Sucks?”
Rafe’s response didn’t surprise Mic. Rafe was so good at what he did that he sometimes couldn’t relate to ordinary people. What shocked Mic was the laughter that quietly rippled through the dining room.
Rafe moved on as if unconcerned, marching Mic to a table in the back as he waved over a waitress. “Tonight’s dinner is on me. Give me twenty minutes and I will make you the happiest man on earth.”
Watching Rafe leave, he didn’t see the waitress who’d appeared at the side of the table and slid a menu in front of him. He opened it as he glanced up with a smile, then his breathing and—he was sure—his heart stopped.
“Liliana?”
Her waitress smile faded. Her brown eyes darkened. “Mic?”
He tried to think of something clever to say, but words failed him. After two years of teaching himself to forget her and another six years of believing he had. Here she was.
The question was: could he be polite? Or should he demand the answers he should have gotten eight years ago?
Liliana Norelli’s breath froze. Her body swayed. Was gorgeous Mic—the only man she’d ever loved—really here?
She blinked once to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. When her eyes opened again, Michele’s surprising blue eyes still stared up at her. His full lips formed a thin, intolerant line.
That quickly brought her to her senses. She cleared her throat. “I don’t think Chef Rafe wants you to order. I only brought the menu so you could see what he offers.” She turned to walk away but he caught her hand. “This is all you have to say to me?”
Oh, there were a million things she wanted to say. A million questions she wanted to ask. She’d given him up eight years ago so he could pursue his dream. She longed to know her sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.
But with his fingers sliding across her sensitive skin and every nerve ending in her body tingling with the memory of those clever hands on her, she said nothing. They’d been so crazy in love that her refusal of his marriage proposal had devastated him. But she’d known the cost of supporting two people in Paris would have been nearly impossible. Adding her ten-year-old sister would have tipped the scales from nearly impossible to totally impossible. He would have killed himself trying to afford an apartment large enough for three, and in the end he would have lost his dream apprenticeship. So she’d pretended he had only been a fling for her and he’d gone to Paris hating her for making a fool of him.
So … no. She could not ask him how he was. She could not hug him because she was so happy to see him. She could not anything.
She pulled her arm away.
Totally oblivious, Rafe returned with a seafood platter antipasto with calamari, mussels, smoked salmon, tuna fish and olives.
Mic grinned. His short dark hair was far different than the long curls he’d worn eight years ago. His body had filled out. His shoulders had become broad. His arms were muscled. Memories of her happy time with him raced through her brain, warming her blood and saddening her soul.
Taking advantage of Rafe’s presence, Lily sped away.
But as the night drew to a close with her chef spoiling the only man she’d ever loved, she grew more and more tired. It had taken her years to get over him, but one night in the same space with him and everything she’d worked to forget came tumbling back. Long nights in bed. Shared lattes because they were too poor to buy more than one. How he’d always left the last sip for her.
All she wanted to do was go home and weep.
Mic said goodnight to Rafe and looked over at her. Held in the gaze of those striking blue eyes, her golden memories returned, along with the sense that her real life hadn’t begun until the moment she’d given herself to him.
Shrugging into his leather jacket—a sign of how successful he’d been, proving she’d made the right choice in letting him go—he walked over.
“I think things need to be resolved between us.”
Refusing to let him see her pain, she broke through her own sadness to smile. “Things are fine between us.”
“Fine enough for us to work together?”
Her eyes widened. “You are working here?”
“Yes, Rafe and I decided that while I’m in town, it would be fun to work together again. With two master chefs, this place will shine. I start tomorrow.”
Lily held back a gasp. Working with Mic? Seeing him eight or ten hours a day for weeks?