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CHAPTER FOUR

THE next morning, Fran felt awkward going in to work so late—especially as Gio wasn’t there—but Sally and Ian, the baristas, greeted her cheerfully enough. Sally had a mug of coffee ready for her just the way she liked it before she’d even reached the office. Gio had emailed her from Holborn, asking if she’d get some information for him about specific aspects of franchising, so she spent the rest of the morning researching, and the afternoon setting up a spreadsheet that would do automated graphs showing the figures for each coffee shop.

She knew the second that Gio walked into the coffee shop; even though she couldn’t see him from the office, she was aware of his presence. Something that made the air tingle.

So much for her pep talk, the previous evening, spent in front of the bathroom mirror, repeating over and over again that Gio Mazetti was her boss and way off limits. It wasn’t as if she’d been bothered before about being single or on the shelf. Why should things be different now?

‘Hi.’ He walked into the office and leaned against the edge of her desk. ‘Good day so far?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘Pretty good. I’ve got a new supplier coming to see us tomorrow morning—someone who does organic cakes. So we’ll need to do a taste test and, if we like it, work out what we’re going to have to charge to keep the same profit margin and where the break-even points are. She left me the price list.’ He handed her a folder. ‘Tomorrow, can you sort me out some suggested figures for a trial?’

‘No problem.’She flicked into her tasklist and typed rapidly.

‘Thanks. Are you still OK for another half-hour lesson on baristaing, tonight?’ he asked.

So he was still going to teach her, not get Sally or one of the others to take over? A warm glow spread through her. ‘Sure.’ She tried for a light tone. ‘This is where I get to do the milk, yes?’

‘Yep. Have you got the orders from Holborn and the others?’

‘Yes, and I was just about to ring the supplier,’ she said with a smile.

He smacked his palm against his forehead. ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m teaching you to suck eggs.’

‘No. But you’ve been doing this for years. It must be hard to give up control.’

‘A bit,’ he admitted. ‘You’ve got your course booked?’

‘I was going to ask you about that. I can go on Tuesday or Thursday next week. Which one would fit in best with whatever you’ve got planned?’

‘Either. And I’m not expecting to see you in here before or after, whichever day it is,’he said firmly. ‘Straight to college from home—and straight back home from college, OK?’

‘Yes, boss.’ She saluted him. ‘Though I assume you’d like me to let you know if I pass?’

‘When,’ he corrected. ‘Of course you’ll pass.’

She’d already told him she wasn’t good when it came to exams, so it felt good that he had that much confidence in her.

‘When you’ve phoned the order through, come out the front and I’ll take you on a whistle-stop tour of the Giovanni’s empire.’ He smiled at her, and left her to it.

When she emerged from the office, a few minutes later, she was surprised when Gio led her to a car.

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to go by Tube?’

‘With all those line changes? Even Holborn, all of two stops away, means a line change. If you add in Islington and Docklands…’ He grimaced. ‘It’s a lot less hassle to do it this way.’

The car wasn’t what she’d expected, either. It must have shown on her face, because he said with a grin, ‘Just what were you expecting me to drive, Fran?’

Well, he’d asked—she might as well be honest. ‘A Harley. Or maybe a two-seater.’

He laughed. ‘First off, if I had a motorbike, it’d be a Ducati—I’d always pick an Italian make first. But if you’ve ever tried having a guitar case as your pillion passenger…’ For a second, his face clouded. And then he looked wistful. ‘A two-seater…Yeah.’

‘A Ferrari?’ It was the only Italian sports car she could think of.

‘Along with taking out a second mortgage to pay for the insurance? No.’ He shook his head. ‘My first car was a two-seater—an Alfa. I bought her the day after I passed my driving test. Dad went bananas that I’d spent so much money on an old car with a soft top that always leaked, but she was the love of my life. The day the mechanic told me there was no way he’d be able to fix her up to pass the MOT and I’d have to scrap her…’ He sighed. ‘I rang every car museum I could think of to see if I could donate her somewhere she’d get a kind retirement.’

‘And you found somewhere?’

‘No.’ He opened the passenger door of the estate car for her. ‘Dad had to take her to the scrap dealer’s for me. I couldn’t face it.’

Oh, bless. On impulse, she gave him a hug.

And then wished she hadn’t when every single nerve-end started tingling.

And tingled a bit more when Gio’s arms came round her to return the hug. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For not laughing at me.’

‘Course I wouldn’t laugh at you,’ she said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as rough and croaky to him as it did to her, and she ducked into the car.

She just about managed to recover her composure by the time he slid into the driving seat. ‘So how come you’ve got an estate car now?’ It was the complete opposite of a little two-seater sports car.

‘Because Marco got really fed up with me borrowing his to do the cash-and-carry run, and nagged me into getting my own. Although my suppliers deliver nowadays, I haven’t got round to changing the car to something a bit smaller and easier to park.’ He slanted her a look. ‘Don’t tell me you drive a two-seater?’

‘I don’t have a car.’ She shrugged. ‘Don’t really need one, for London.’

‘What about when you go home to see your family?’

‘Train and taxi.’

‘So on a bright spring day, you never get up and decide to go to the seaside?’

‘No. But if I wanted to, there’s a reasonable train service from London to Brighton.’ She glanced at him. ‘Is that what you do on your days off? Go to the seaside?’

He gave her a non-committal murmur; given what she’d already heard his family say to him, she interpreted that as meaning that he almost never took time off.

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.