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As he turned on the ignition, the car was flooded with indie rock. Very loud indie rock.
‘Whoops.’ He turned the stereo off. ‘Sorry. One of my worst habits. Volume.’
She’d half-expected him to listen to classical guitar music. Or maybe that was too painful—a reminder of what he’d lost. ‘No worries,’ she said. ‘And I don’t mind if you’d rather have music on when you’re driving.’
‘Just not at that volume, hmm?’ he asked wryly, but switched the stereo on again, this time lowering the volume to something much more bearable.
The journey was quick, and he parked in a side street near the Holborn branch. The feel of the place was very similar to the Charlotte Street café, but Fran was intrigued to see that it had its own identity. Different art on the walls, for starters. But the staff were just as warm and friendly as they were at Charlotte Street, and Amy—the head barista—seemed pleased to put a face to the voice from the previous day.
Islington was next, and then Docklands; again, Fran noticed that there wasn’t a uniform style to the cafés. ‘If you’re going to franchise the business,’ she said to Gio on their way back to Charlotte Street, ‘shouldn’t the cafés all look the same?’
‘Yes and no,’ Gio said. ‘I suppose there needs to be some kind of corporate identity. A logo or what have you. But I don’t want them to be identikit. I want each café to fit in with its surroundings and suit the clientele in the area. Which means they’re different.’ He lifted one shoulder. ‘I want to keep it personal. And sell bakery goods produced locally, to local recipes where possible—so if we expand further afield that would mean Banbury cakes in Oxfordshire, parkin in Yorkshire, Bakewell pudding in Derbyshire and that sort of thing. We’ll sell the best coffee and the best regional goodies.’ He frowned. ‘So I suppose that’s an argument against franchising.’
‘But if you go the other route and open more branches, you’re not going to have time to do a shift in every one, every single week, to get feedback from your customers and staff. Especially if some of them are outside London,’ she pointed out. ‘With four, you can do it. With five, it’s going to be a struggle. With ten—no chance.’
He sighed. ‘I’m doing the wrong thing. I shouldn’t be looking at franchising—I should be inventing a time machine, so I can make the time to visit all the branches myself.’
‘What was it your Italian grandmother says about trusting people?’ she asked gently. ‘If you expand, Gio, you’re going to have to learn to delegate. Trust your managers to do what you do and to give you the feedback. You don’t have to do it all yourself.’
‘I’m trying to delegate. I’m trusting you to sort the admin side.’ He coughed. ‘Well. Apart from sitting on your case, earlier.’ He parked in a little square just off Charlotte Street.
‘Where are we?’ Fran asked.
‘My parking space, near my flat.’ He smiled. ‘Told you I lived near the café. It’s a ten-minute stroll from my flat to work, tops, which makes life very easy.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you sure you’re still OK for a lesson in lattes?’
‘Sure.’ Which was when Fran realised that she’d actually been looking forward to it. All day. And even though she’d spent most of the afternoon with Gio, most of the time they’d been with other people.
This would be just the two of them.
Alone.
Strange how that thought made her heart beat a little bit faster.
They arrived back at the Charlotte Street branch just before closing. Once Sally and Ian had left, Gio bolted the door and switched off most of the lights. Then he smiled at Fran. ‘Ready?’
‘Yup.’ She fished her notebook out of her handbag.
‘OK. Rule one of milk—it has to be fresh and cold, or it won’t froth. It’s the proteins in milk that make the foam. And the way we do it is with a steam wand—your goal is to get the froth hole in the wand at the same level as the surface of the milk, so you’ll get nice small bubbles throughout the milk instead of huge bubbles at the top.’
‘Why do you need small bubbles?’
He smiled. ‘I’ll show you.’ He talked her through how to use the steam nozzle on the machine, starting with half a pitcher of cold milk and gradually working it up so it became warm and frothy. ‘This is perfect for a latte. And latte art.’
‘Latte art?’ Fran asked, mystified.
‘It’s how you pour the milk in such a way that you make a pretty pattern on the top—the crema comes through in the design. You make a rosetta, swirling the leaves out, and you finish with the stem to pull it all together.’ He tapped the jug against the table; then, with what looked like a tiny wobble of the wrist, he swirled the milk on and a flower suddenly appeared in the middle of the foam.
‘That’s pretty,’ she said. ‘You make it look very easy—would I be right in saying it’s quite difficult?’
‘It’s advanced baristaing—an extra,’ he admitted. ‘It’s what the coffee tastes like that counts most, not what it looks like. If you’ve made vile coffee, it doesn’t matter how pretty it is—the customer won’t want to come back. And then again, some people don’t even notice; they add sugar and stir, and your rosetta’s gone so you might just as well not have bothered. But it sometimes makes the customer’s day when they see a heart or an apple or a flower or a rosetta on the top of their coffee.’
‘Latte art.’ He had to be teasing her.
He spread his hands. ‘If you don’t believe me, look on the internet. There are pages and pages of photos of latte art.’
She still wasn’t sure if he was teasing her or not. But she liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his eyes glittered.
‘OK. Remember how to make an espresso?’ he asked. ‘Normally, you’d froth the milk at the same time, but as it’s your first time we’ll do the milk second.’
‘Grind, dose, tamp, fit the filter and pour,’ she said.
He nodded, looking pleased. ‘Go for it.’
To her relief, the espresso came out well.
‘Now to steam and froth the milk.’ He guided her through the process, just as he had when he’d taught her to make an espresso. When he moved the steam nozzle for her with a clean cloth, his arm brushed against hers, the brief touch of his skin making her temperature sizzle.
This was crazy. She was known for being level-headed at work, good in a crisis. Reliable, calm and efficient. So why did she feel right now as if fireworks were going off inside her head? Why did she want to leave the coffee where it was, forget the milk, twist round in Gio’s arms and brush her mouth against his?
Focus, she reminded herself.
‘When you turn the pressure down, can you hear the change in the sound of the steam tap?’ he asked.
Low and husky—just like Gio’s voice. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Bring the nozzle up a tiny bit—remember, we’re trying to keep the steam coming out almost at the surface of the milk—and let it froth.’ He was standing behind her, one arm either side of her, his hands resting on hers to help her keep the jug in the right place. ‘When the jug feels hot to the touch, the milk’s ready.’
She certainly felt hot right now. Hot and very bothered. Because his hands were strong and capable, and she could smell his clean personal scent, mixed with a citrussy tang which she assumed was shower gel or shampoo. A scent that she found incredibly arousing; she just hoped that Gio couldn’t see the way her nipples had tightened under her shirt.
‘You’re picky.’
‘Details are important,’ he said. ‘My customers expect the best. And I wouldn’t produce anything less.’
‘And yet your office is untidy. I thought perfectionists were that way about everything,’ she said.
He laughed, the smile-lines around his mouth deepening. ‘I’m a perfectionist about some things.’
For a brief moment—before she managed to suppress it—the idea flickered through her brain. What else would Gio be a perfectionist about? Kissing? Making lo—
They were making coffee, she reminded herself. Flirting and what have you was not on the agenda.
‘What we’re looking for is texture. Tiny microbubbles that make the foam and the milk one—so it settles out in the cup, not the jug. It’s got a sheen like quicksilver,’ Gio told her. ‘We’re looking for pure silk.’
Silk. Like his skin. Like his voice.
Oh, lord. She was going to drop the wretched jug in a minute.
‘OK. This’ll do nicely. Now, what I showed you was free-pouring—but that’s quite time-sensitive, and you need to build up to that. For now, we’ll spoon.’
Her mouth went dry at the thought. ‘Spoon.’
‘Spoon the froth from the jug.’
Oh-h-h. The picture that had flickered into her mind at the word ‘spoon’ had nothing to do with coffee or cutlery. She was really, really going to have to watch what she said.
‘Let the jug rest for a little while, so the foam and milk separate out a bit. Then you scoop the foam out of the jug and on to the surface of the espresso. A little bit for a latte.’
She did as he instructed.
Spoon. She couldn’t get that picture out of her head.
The picture of Gio’s body wrapped round hers.
Naked.
‘Then you hold the froth back in the jug with the spoon and pour the milk on to the coffee. It should go through the foam and lift it up, and mix with the coffee.’
She’d barely heard a word he was saying. Tonight, she’d have to go and research it on the internet, so she could make some notes—and maybe try again tomorrow when it was quiet and preferably when Gio was on a break.
‘Like so.’ He smiled at her. ‘The perfect latte. Try.’
‘It doesn’t look as pretty as yours.’
‘You can cheat a bit—some people spoon a tiny bit of foam on top of the crema and make it into a swirl with the back of a spoon. Or you can use a needle to make patterns, like starbursts or the kind of feathering a pastry chef does with icing,’ he said. ‘Or cheat even more and use chocolate syrup and a knife. But free-pouring’s the proper art.’
‘And it takes weeks to learn, you say?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Sounds as if you’re up for a challenge. I’ll teach you how to do it. And if you can do it by the end of your trial period, I’ll take you to Fortnum’s and buy you the biggest box of chocolates of your choice.’
‘And if I can’t?’
‘Then you buy me the chocolates.’ He moistened his lower lip in a way that made her heart beat just that little bit faster. ‘And I should warn you that I’m greedy.’
Fran had a nasty feeling that she could be greedy, too.
And it took every single bit of her self-control to stop her sliding her arms round his neck and jamming her mouth over his.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘LATTE art,’ Fran said, rolling her eyes, when Gio set the cup down on her desk the following morning. On the top was a heart—with concentric rings round it. ‘You’re showing off, aren’t you?’
He pantomimed surprise. ‘You mean, you noticed?’
‘Just a tad.’ She’d noticed something else, too—the guitar case tucked away in the corner of the office. But she hadn’t brought it up in discussion with him. After what he’d told her about the way his music studies had crashed and burned, she had a feeling that he was sensitive about it. She wasn’t going to push him to talk about it unless he was ready. ‘Thank you for the coffee. Now, if you want me to sort out these figures for you, go away and leave me in peace.’
‘Your wish is my command.’ He gave her a deep bow, followed by one of the knee-buckling smiles. ‘I’ll come and get you when the cake lady’s here.’
‘Cheers.’ She smiled back, then got to work with the spreadsheet.
Gio leaned through the office doorway at the perfect moment: just when Fran had finished the stats. She printed them off and waved them at him.
‘I’ll look at them afterwards,’ Gio promised. ‘But come and taste the goodies first.’
He introduced Fran to Ingrid, the baker, who talked them through the samples she’d brought. ‘And I’m leaving before you all start trying them,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing worse than doing a taste-test and not being able to give an honest opinion because you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. Give me a call, Gio, when you’re ready. Nice to meet you, Fran, Sally and Ian.’ She shook their hands, smiled and left.
‘Perfect timing,’ Sally said. ‘The morning rush is over, the lunchtime one won’t start for another twenty minutes—and we have chocolate cake. Oh, yessss. Those brownies are mine, all mine.’
Gio produced a knife and cut both the brownies into two. ‘No, they’re not. We’re splitting them all four ways. Except for the Amaretti, which are all mine.’
‘In your dreams,’ Fran said, scooping one of them and taking a nibble. ‘Oh, wow. Intense.’
‘Intense, good or intense, bad?’ Gio asked.
‘Definitely bad,’ she fibbed. ‘Let me save you the trouble of eat—’She didn’t get to finish the sentence, because Gio simply leaned over and took a bite from the Amaretti she was holding.
The feel of his mouth against her fingers sent a shiver of pure desire down her spine. Bad. Very bad. This was meant to be a tasting session. And they were tasting food, not each other. They were in the middle of his coffee shop, for goodness’sake! Sally and Ian were there, and a customer could walk in at any moment.
This was even worse than their coffee-making lessons. Because this time it wasn’t just the two of them. She really, really had to get a grip.
‘Mmm. Perfect,’ he said huskily.
He was talking about the biscuit. Not about her skin, she reminded herself sharply.
‘These flapjacks are good, too,’ Ian said.
‘Brownies. Oh-h-h. I need more brownies,’ Sally said, clutching her heart dramatically. ‘Save me. Give me brownies.’
‘Too late, Sal. You’ll have to make do with carrot cake.’ Gio handed her a piece wrapped in a paper napkin.
Lord, he had a beautiful mouth. Fran knew she should just stop watching him eat. The last thing she wanted was for her new boss to think she had the hots for him. And she could definitely do without Sally and Ian noticing the state she was in and teasing her about it.
When the samples had been reduced to crumbs, they looked at each other. ‘Well?’ Gio said.
‘They’re good,’ Ian said. ‘Better than our current range.’
‘And this is Fitzrovia,’ Sally said. ‘Organic food is definitely on the up in this area.’
Gio nodded. ‘Our coffee’s ethically farmed, so organic cakes and pastries fit with the ethos of Giovanni’s. Especially as these have no packaging. Eco-friendly and caring—that’s good. Fran?’
‘I checked out the local competition on the net. If we sell organic, that gives us differentiation from the others,’ she said. ‘Is our coffee organic?’
‘No, but you can talk to the supplier and see what they can offer us, so it’s a possible option—in the same way that we can do decaf on request,’ Gio said. ‘Do the figures stack up?’
She nodded. ‘We’ll need to put the prices up a little bit, because the wholesale price is higher than the non-organic cakes. But, as Sally said, our customers are the sort who put ethics above economics.’
Gio smiled. ‘Good. We’ll trial fifty-fifty to start with, see how it goes. Starting on Monday. Give it a month, see how it’s affecting sales. If they’re the same, we’ll make a wholesale switch.’
‘I think,’ Sally said, ‘you should ring Ingrid and say we’re not sure about the brownies—we need some more for testing. A lot more. A whole trayful—no, make that a whole ovenful.’
Gio ruffled her hair. ‘Yeah, yeah, Sal. She’ll really believe that. Thanks, team. Fran, I need to go over to Docklands. Can you draft me a letter to Ingrid about the trial?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thanks. See you later.’
She loved the way he trusted her enough to get her to draft the letter, instead of dictating it to her over the phone when he got to Docklands. Although she’d adored her job at the voiceover studio, this job was turning out to be a real buzz, too. He’d listened to what she had to say about franchising, too. What she thought counted.
Though it wasn’t just that, she thought as she headed back to the office. It was working with Gio that gave her the buzz. Because there was definite chemistry there—the way he’d eaten that Amaretti from her fingers…
But she needed to keep her feet on the ground. It was stupid even to contemplate any sort of relationship other than a working one with Gio. She already knew he didn’t do relationships and he was at a place in his life where he didn’t really know what he wanted. Yes, he flirted with her and teased her, but he did that with just about everyone—so she’d better not start getting any ideas.
She drafted the letter for Gio’s approval and was just about to ring through the order to the supplier when she was aware that someone had walked into the office. She looked up, and recognised the woman from the photo on the computer.
‘Hello. You’re Gio’s mum, aren’t you?’
Mrs Mazetti looked a bit thrown. ‘How did you know?’
‘Apart from the fact that he has your eyes, you mean?’ Fran smiled, and flicked through the computer screens to show her the wallpaper. ‘This is how I know.’
‘Oh!’ She looked pleased. ‘I didn’t know he had a photo here.’
‘Do have a seat, Mrs Mazetti. Can I get you a coffee and a pastry or something?’
‘No, but thank you for offering. Is Gio around?’
Fran shook her head. ‘Sorry, he’s at the Docklands branch this afternoon—do you want me to ring through to him and get him to come back?’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Mrs Mazetti flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I know I shouldn’t really bother him when he’s working. He hates being disturbed when he’s busy.’
‘Is it anything I can help with? I’m Fran, his office manager, by the way.’
‘Angela Mazetti.’ She took Fran’s outstretched hand and shook it. ‘I thought you might be Francesca.’
It was Fran’s turn to be thrown. ‘Why? Has he said something about me?’
Angela rolled her eyes. ‘Of course not. I’m his mother. Giovanni never tells me anything.’
‘Ah. Marco was your mole?’ Fran guessed.
Angela laughed. ‘Oh, dear. Was it that obvious?’
Fran laughed back. ‘Gio says you’re all ganging up on him and trying to get him to settle down, Mrs Mazetti.’
‘Call me Angela,’ the elder woman said. She sighed. ‘We don’t gang up on him really. We just worry about him. When you have a son of your own, you’ll know exactly what I mean.’
Having a child wasn’t on her list of immediate plans, Fran thought, but she tried her best to look sympathetic.
‘So are you settling in OK?’ Angela asked.
Fran nodded. ‘Everyone’s been really nice. And Gio’s lovely to work with.’
‘Good.’Angela gave her a speculative look. ‘So you’re just colleagues.’
‘Yes. And he’s an excellent boss. He expects a lot from his staff, but he’s fair and he’s honest—so everyone’s happy to make the extra effort.’
‘Hmm.’ Angela stood up again. ‘Well, I can see you’re busy, so I won’t keep you. It was nice to meet you, Fran.’
‘Shall I tell Gio you dropped in?’ Fran asked.
Angela raised an eyebrow. ‘I could say that I was just passing…but he’d never believe that.’ She gave Fran a rueful smile. ‘And, from the look on your face, neither do you.’
‘Well, of course you’d want to check me out. Make sure I’m not some kind of bombshell man-eater who isn’t going to treat your son properly—or some kind of incompetent airhead who’s going to cause him extra work to sort out the mess she’s made so he’ll be under even more stress.’
Angela laughed. ‘Consider me suitably reassured. Welcome to Giovanni’s, Fran. And if you’re ever at a loose end on a Sunday, you’re always welcome to come to lunch at our place. Don’t ever feel you’re intruding, because we normally have a houseful and there’s always room for one more.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’ The sheer warmth of the invitation made Fran’s throat feel tight. But if she burst into tears she’d have to explain, and she didn’t want Gio’s mum to think she was a flake. ‘Thank you.’ Please, please don’t let Angela Mazetti hear the wobble in her voice.
‘Ciao,’ Angela said, the corners of her eyes crinkling, and left the office.
Fran was too busy for the rest of the afternoon to notice the time but, exactly as the previous day, she was aware of the precise moment that Gio returned: just about at closing time. She finished what she was doing and saved the file, then walked into the coffee shop. ‘Hi.’
Gio turned to face her. ‘Hi. Had a good afternoon?’
‘Fine, thanks. I’ve done the letters for you, a bit of research on that project you asked about, and all the orders are sorted for tomorrow and Monday.’
‘Brilliant. It’s so good to know I don’t have to stop what I’m doing and sort it all out myself. And having this extra time…You know, maybe my family’s right and I do work too hard.’
Did that mean he wanted to skip the barista training this evening? The sudden swoop of disappointment in her stomach made Fran realise just how much she’d been looking forward to it.
But then he asked, ‘Do you still have time to stay and learn about cappuccinos?’
Pleasure fizzed through her—a feeling she tried to damp down, because she knew it wasn’t just the fact she was learning something new. It was because she’d be close to Gio. ‘Sure,’ she said, aiming for insouciance.
Gio was cross with himself for feeling so pleased that she was staying late again. And crosser still when he realised it was more than just pleasure at a new employee showing commitment to the café chain.
The real reason it made him happy was because he was going to be close to Fran.
When she’d hugged him yesterday, he hadn’t been able to stop himself hugging her back. And it had taken all his strength of will to let her go again.
This was bad. Really bad. Because now was just about the worst possible time to start a relationship, when he was thinking of taking the business up another gear and he had no free time. And Francesca Marsden was just about the worst possible person he could think of to have a relationship with, because she was his new office manager and he was going to need her help in the business. He couldn’t afford to lose someone who’d already shown initiative and drive and an ability to second-guess him.
He locked up, then motioned her towards the coffee machines. ‘Same as yesterday with the milk and the espresso, but this time you’re making cappuccino. That’s a third coffee, a third milk and a third froth. You’ll need to rock the jug a bit as you pour—or you can spoon the froth on top if you find it easier.’
He watched her as she worked. When she was concentrating, he noticed, she caught the tip of her tongue between her teeth. And it made him want to lean forward and touch the tip of his tongue to hers. Kiss her. Mould her body against his. Feel the weight of her breasts as he cupped them.
He swallowed hard, just as she looked up and slid the cup in front of him. ‘Is this OK?’
‘Looks good.’ He tasted it. ‘You need a touch less milk and a touch more froth, but for a first attempt it’s excellent.’
‘Thank you.’
‘When you’ve done your food hygiene course, you can practise on some customers. In the quiet spots of the day, that is; I wouldn’t expect you to handle the morning, lunchtime or mid-afternoon rush, first off.’ He smiled at her. ‘And now I ought to let you go home.’ He didn’t want her to go—but on the other hand, it was probably better for his rapidly unravelling self-control that she did. ‘Your family’s going to be beating my door down and yelling at me for making you work too hard.’
‘I doubt it. They know I’m a big girl and I can look after myself.’
She’d clearly aimed for a flippant note, but he could hear the underlying hurt. What was wrong? He fished in the tub on the counter, drew out a chocolate dipper and handed it to her. ‘Spill the beans.’