‘So, this area is open to the public,’ Natalia explained as she took Minty through the exhaustive menu. ‘Take away or eat in, by the portion or the box. It’s on all the tourist maps so we get a great deal of passing trade, plus potential trade customers who like to drop in casually—and the odd competitor snooping around as well.’
The café had been opened at some point in the past six years, another of Luca’s innovations. The place was full of them. And the staff loved it. It was like working with a living saint, Minty thought. The wonderful Signor Di Tore—or Signor Luca to the older staff, who remembered every visit the infant prodigy had paid to the factory and could happily recount them in mind-numbing detail. His every word was listened to adoringly, every pronouncement admired, every movement scrutinised.
No wonder he was insufferable.
‘You have got the hang of it very quickly,’ Natalia said admiringly as Minty deftly dealt with a large group of teenagers, each with a different and complicated request. ‘You’re a natural.’
‘Not really,’ Minty confessed. ‘I ran a café back in London. Cupcakes; they’re pretty big there right now.’ She sighed. Her father’s manager was keeping an eye on them while she was exiled from the family fold. She hoped he wouldn’t interfere too much, or try to enforce his tastes on the staff. His favourite pudding was spotted dick. Minty shuddered. Even her talented bakers would have a hard time creating a tasty treat with that as an inspiration.
A range of cakes based on other traditional English classics might work, though. Minty mechanically served the next couple as her mind went through some ideas. Sticky toffee pudding, jam roly-poly and custard, rhubarb crumble, apple pie—all the basis of perfect little cupcakes. She might be banned from setting foot on the premises but her father couldn’t stop her from texting her ideas through. ‘Old school’, they could call the range. A vanilla sponge, rhubarb middle topped with a smidge of crème anglaise and finished off with a buttery crumble: perfect for the autumn. Mini summer puddings sandwiched together with cream for the coming season. Possibly some variations on a scone?
She rinsed out the metal scoop, her mind still humming with ideas, and pushed it firmly into the frutti di bosco, scraping out a perfect round scoop and placing it carefully into the paper cup. The gelato was a deep purple, bursting with berries. As she handed over the cup to an eagerly outstretched hand, a glimmer of an idea began to grow insistently.
As the post-lunch siesta hour kicked in, the flow of customers quietened down and for the first time in several hours there was no one waiting to be served. It was nice to have a few moments alone with her thoughts. The few customers that were left were content to sit out in the sun sipping their drinks. Natalia had taken advantage of the lull to slip out for some lunch.
Minty took out the small notepad and pencil she’d been issued with and began to sketch out some ideas. Keeping busy kept her mind away from dangerous topics, pushing memories of the other night with Luca firmly out of her mind. It was just that there’d been a moment, a few moments, when Luca had looked at her as if he’d seen something more. As if she weren’t just a thorn in his side, not just a spoilt child.
He’d looked at her like that before. Another memory she’d tried to forget.
Memories could be inconvenient. It was so easy to make them selective. They focussed on molten eyes, on heat, on want. They forgot the burning chill of rejection. They forgot how it felt to lie on a sofa suddenly impossibly alone, skirt rucked up, shirt undone, lips open with need. They forgot the look of horror. Of guilt. Of rejection.
They said you never forgot your first time. It was as true of rejection as it was of anything else.
But memories could also make you hope. Far better to forget, to live in the here and now.
‘You look quite at home there.’ Minty jumped at the familiar voice. He was like the devil: think of him and he appeared. She looked across to see him standing at one of the open doors, leaning against the frame, laughter in his eyes as he looked her up and down.
Another day, another outfit so uncharacteristic she defied any paparazzo to recognise her in it. The white, button-up dress was almost clinical in its severity; her hair was smoothed back, covered with a small pink scarf. She gave him a twirl. ‘What do you think?’
‘You certainly look the part,’ he agreed. ‘Having fun?’
‘It’s not all new to me, you know,’ she said. Why did he always seem to be laughing at her? ‘I do own three cafés and, contrary to popular belief, I have actually worked in them.’
Luca raised a sceptical brow as he sauntered into the café, weekend casual in faded blue jeans and a bright-blue short-sleeved shirt. Minty wanted to wipe that scepticism off his face, see it replaced with respect. After six solid days of work, she deserved some respect. ‘The first one, I set up from scratch: painted the walls, chose the recipes, mixed cake batter until all I could smell was sugar and egg and butter. Stood behind a counter and smiled as people spent ten minutes choosing which one they wanted.’
‘So why aren’t you there now?’
Now, that was a good question. Unfortunately Minty didn’t have a good answer. ‘I told you, they are part of my trust fund, so therefore forbidden,’ she said. Honesty compelled her to carry on. ‘Daddy said as I had barely set foot inside them in months I couldn’t claim that I was needed there, that they were doing all right without me. I guess he was right.’
He didn’t say anything, just wandered round the counter and came to stand next to her, a disturbingly comfortable presence. Calmly, without any fuss or fanfare, he began to make a couple of coffees, loading up a tray with a few small savouries and a helping of the delicious-looking salad they used as garnish. ‘You must be starving,’ he said finally. ‘Come, sit down. If anyone comes in I’ll take over.’
Minty considered arguing, asserting her independence, pointing out that Natalia wouldn’t be long and she could easily wait. But, without quite knowing how, she found herself following him over to a quiet corner with a view of the counter.
‘It’s not that I was lazy,’ she said suddenly, standing beside the table as he pulled out a chair. He glanced at her, eyes mildly enquiring, no judgement on his face. Minty sank into the chair and pulled the plate over, picking up one of the tiny, perfect pastries and turning it round in her fingers, her appetite gone.
‘Joe thought they gave out the wrong message—elitist establishments in expensive areas charging exorbitant prices. Not at all compatible with his values. He preferred that I spent my time volunteering or helping him. So, I did.’
She didn’t know why it was so important that Luca understood, that he didn’t think badly of her—at least, any more badly than he already did. But it did matter.
‘Okay, that’s what Joe wanted. What did you want?’ It was said so gently it almost hurt her. There had been too many times in the past when the only person who had shown a glimmer of understanding was Luca.
She had usually punished him for it.
She continued to twist the mini focaccia between her fingers. The bread was dissolving into a mass of crumbs, the aubergine and mozzarella filling sliding out onto the plate below, releasing an aroma of onions, garlic and oregano. She stared at the mess she was creating, searching for answers. What did she want?
It was the million-dollar question. And she had no idea.
She quite liked it here. Quite liked today, keeping busy, being useful, good at what she did even if it was just serving ice cream. And the other night, the meal, the company—she’d enjoyed that just a little too much.
Until he had shut her out and walked away. Again.
Minty raised her head and smiled across at Luca. He was still looking at her intently, concern etched on his handsome features. The sudden urge to sink onto him, into him, to allow him to shoulder her burdens was immense, almost irresistible.
‘I