“We had a guest arrive. Late.” Her brow furrowed against her will, without her realisation.
“And?”
Charlotte lifted her shoulders, unable to meet her friend’s curious gaze for reasons she couldn’t fathom. “And, I had to make up his room. Cook dinner.”
Melody nodded slowly. “I see.”
Heat flushed Charlotte’s cheeks, the tell-tale blush surely obvious to her friend. But when she lifted her eyes, it was to see Melody munching on the almond croissant, dropping flaky little crumbs all over the counter. Charlotte turned back to the pudding mixture, breathing in the reassuring scent of spices, the connection to her mother warming her soul.
“I know how close you are to Winona and Caleb,” Melody said, thoughtfully. “But they do tend to take advantage of you.”
Charlotte bit down on her lower lip. It was a thought that had occurred to her the night before.
“They are also incredibly generous,” she pointed out. “Letting Dash and me live here…”
“You could afford to get a bigger place, away from here. Then you wouldn’t be on call whenever late-night guests arrive.”
“But I’d have to find a sitter for Dash, and with you about to kick up your heels and leave me for London, or Paris, or whichever job you decide to take—,”
“That’s not decided,” Melody interjected quickly. “And Madrid is the front runner.”
“Madrid? Tell me more.”
“Later. You’re changing the subject.”
“No, I’m not. There’s just nothing more to discuss. I know I end up doing more for the pub than my role— strictly speaking-—entails, but there’s a lot of give and take. When Dash is sick, they’re the most understanding employers in the world, and I love that I don’t ever have to leave him. Plus, he gets to help out in the kitchen and with clearing tables. He’s close to me, always. It’s…important.”
Melody’s expression showed sympathy. “You’re doing such a great job with him, Charlie. Michael would be proud of you.”
Charlotte’s smile was watery, but she didn’t get a chance to reply. A moment later, an accented voice wafted into the kitchen with as much pungent deliciousness as the pastries spread out on the airing racks between them.
“Carlotta?”
Melody’s pale brown eyes widened as she mouthed silently, ‘Carlotta?’
“Um, just a moment!” Charlotte almost upended the pudding mixture in her haste to wipe her hands down the front of her apron.
“Carlotta?” Melody repeated with a speculative glint changing her eyes to a darker shade.
“He’s Italian,” she muttered, wondering if any of the totally illicit dreams she’d enjoyed overnight were apparent, just by looking at her. Probably, to Melody.
“Obviously. And?”
“And nothing,” Charlotte shoved her apron onto the counter then moved to the doors of the kitchen, shooting Melody a warning look before pushing one open—and barging right into Alessio.
“Oh, bloody hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were right there.”
He rubbed his elbow with a look of amusement that turned her bones to puddles. “Evidentamente.”
“Right.” She had no choice but to take a step backwards into the kitchen; Alessio followed, and suddenly, Charlotte felt incredibly self-conscious, to have this man, and her best friend, in the same small space, despite the fact she had no earthly reason to feel that way. But the truth was, while Charlotte slept, her brain had done all sorts of things to the image of Alessio, turning him from a stranger into something else entirely, removing his clothes with artful finesse, allowing her to dream-marvel at his broad, naked chest, his even, golden tan, until dream Charlotte was salivating. And now she had the sound of her name, Italianised, to pepper through her next set of fantasies.
Great.
“Hello there,” Melody purred, standing and wiping almond croissant flakes off her chest.
“Ciao,” Alessio glanced at Melody, then back to Charlotte. “Do you always start work so early?”
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed, moving back to her spot in the kitchen simply because it put enough space between herself and the other two to feel somewhat safe. Except desire, as it turned out, was airborne, and now that Alessio was breathing the same air as her, she felt very much at risk of catching fire.