Passionate Affairs: Breakfast at Giovanni's - Kate Hardy

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with a pile of tiny strawberries and a splash of wild strawberry liqueur over the top. ‘It’s fantastic,’ Fran said, meaning it.

      And the entire table beamed at her.

      After lunch, Fran insisted on helping to clear away.

      ‘No, you’re a guest—you sit down with Gio,’ Marcie said.

      ‘She’s not a guest,’ Nonna said firmly. ‘She’s Gio’s girlfriend. One of us.’

      Fran had to blink away the tears. How easily she’d been accepted among the Mazettis. And it felt really good to be in this family kitchen, with all the women washing up or drying dishes or putting things away or making coffee, chattering away with half-a-dozen different conversations going on at once and everyone laughing and telling little anecdotes about their week—breaking off every so often to look at a photograph on a mobile phone screen and coo over assorted babies and puppies and kittens.

      So different from her own, much quieter and more reserved family.

      And the weird thing was, Fran thought with a pang, she felt as if she belonged here.

      She’d marry Gio tomorrow, just for his family.

      And the sudden realisation made her dizzy. If he asked her, she’d marry Gio tomorrow.

      For himself.

      If Gio’s family noticed that she’d gone a bit quiet, they clearly assumed that she was a bit overwhelmed by the experience of meeting the Mazettis, because nobody made a comment. They simply included her in the conversation and asked her opinion on things.

      They’d just finished clearing away when the doorbell went. A few moments later, Ric and Angela came in with the twins, who were clearly used to the Mazetti way of doing things because they came to everyone for a hug and a kiss—including Fran.

      With their mop of curly dark hair and huge brown eyes, they were irresistible; before she knew it, she was sitting in a chair with both children on her lap, cuddling them and telling them a story.

      ‘She’s perfect,’ Isabella said softly to Gio.

      ‘Sorry, Nonna?’

      ‘Fran. She’s perfect. When you look at her, the emptiness disappears from your eyes.’

      ‘My eyes aren’t empty.’

      ‘Sweetheart, they have been for years. I know you’ve been unhappy. That’s why you work so hard, to make sure you don’t have time to feel.’

      Since when had his grandmother known that?

      ‘But she’s the one for you—and she’ll make you happy,’ Isabella said. ‘I like her very much.’

      ‘Good,’ Gio told her, striving for lightness. But every muscle felt tight with guilt. He was lying to his family about his relationship with Fran. Worse still, he had a suspicion that Nonna was right—that Fran was the one for him. That she was the one who could make him happy, fill the emptiness.

      But on her part this was just for show.

      And he’d always said he didn’t want to settle down.

      So much for his promise that nobody would get hurt. Fran was right: this was going to end in tears. But it was much too late to go back now.

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      ‘I REALLY like your family,’ Fran told Gio on the way home.

      ‘They’re a bit intense.’

      ‘Gio, they’re so warm and welcoming. They’re lovely.’

      Which was what his family said about her, too. His parents and sisters had grabbed him the same way that Nonna had, to tell him privately that they approved of his choice.

      No way could he have hurt them by telling them she was just acting a part.

      But maybe she hadn’t been acting. The way she’d read stories to Ollie and Pat and cuddled baby Lorena…He’d seen a certain softness in her face. A softness that should have made him want to run as hard and as fast as he could, given that he wasn’t ready to settle down and have kids—but instead it had made him feel some weird kind of pull. Made him want something he didn’t dare put a name to.

      ‘They adore you, Gio.’

      And he adored his family right back. He just didn’t want them running his life for him. ‘They liked you.’

      ‘Good.’

      When he pulled up in the road outside her flat, she asked, ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’

      It was a suggestion he couldn’t resist. Particularly as he hadn’t yet seen further into her flat than her front door. Her home would tell him a lot about her, he was sure. And he wanted to know more—a lot more—about the things she never talked about at work. Personal stuff. What made Fran Marsden tick?

      ‘Thanks. I’d love a coffee.’

      ‘It’s not going to be like the stuff you serve at the café,’ she warned, ‘so don’t expect it.’

      He laughed. ‘If you had a café-standard espresso machine at home, I’d be a bit surprised.’

      ‘And my flat’s very small.’

      ‘Stop apologising. It doesn’t matter how big your home is—only how big your welcome is.’

      It was her turn to laugh. ‘Why is it I can hear Nonna’s voice saying that?’

      ‘Probably because it’s one of her favourite phrases,’ he admitted.

      Fran’s ground-floor studio flat was very neat and tidy, as he’d expected. The sofa obviously converted to a bed; there was enough room for a few shelves stacked with books and scattered with framed photographs, a small TV and a micro stereo, and a tiny kitchen in one corner with a bistro table and two chairs next to it. There was a small dragon tree in a white pot on the table.

      ‘It’s very nice,’ he said.

      ‘But it’s still very small,’ she said ruefully. ‘It was either sharing a house or renting a studio flat.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And I wanted my own space. So I chose this.’

      Fran didn’t like sharing her space? Given the way she’d fitted in so well with the Mazettis this afternoon, that surprised him. Or maybe not—like him, she was part of a large family where having your own space was a luxury. This would be a bolthole for her. Just like his flat was, for him.

      He walked over to the window. ‘Nice gardens.’

      She nodded. ‘I’m really lucky that I’m this side of the building and not on the street side. The gardens are communal so the landlord deals with it all—the nearest I have to a garden of my own is my dracena.’

      He noticed that she used the Latin name—so, was Fran a gardener at heart? Did she have a secret yearning for a house with a garden of her own?

      But if he asked her she’d simply deflect the question. He’d already noticed she was very good at that; she rarely gave anything away about herself. He knew next to nothing about her family, other than that she had twin brothers and a sister and they were all academic.

      ‘Go and sit down.’ She motioned towards the sofa. ‘I’ll make the coffee.’

      He sat down and watched her as she switched the kettle on and began shaking grounds into a cafétière. Every moment was efficient, economical. Beautiful to watch. But what shocked him was how much he wanted to go and stand behind her, slide his arms round her waist, hold her close and bury his face in the curve of her neck.

      This wasn’t supposed to happen.

      If

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