Love in London by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Six

Oz

I settle Gabriella at a table near the kitchen – one of the preferential spots since the chef is known for coming out personally to make sure the food is served to perfection – and take my seat opposite her. I can’t help but smile with excitement, but it changes to a frown when I realize that she doesn’t look quite as excited as I feel.

In fact, she looks downright nervous.

“Are you alright?” I ask, leaning over the table to keep my voice low. The waiter has disappeared to leave us with the menus, but this is a cozy space, and I don’t want to embarrass her by having the question overheard.

“This is too much,” she whispers, her eyes flashing with alarm. “When you said a local restaurant, I didn’t think…”

I grin, realizing that’s all it is. “Relax,” I tell her. “Like I said, the chef is a friend of mine. And it’s my treat. Believe me, somewhere like this, no one is paying attention to anyone else. All we’ll have room for in our attention is the food. You’ll see what I mean when it gets here.”

There – that should take care of any of her concerns. I’ve covered the fact that it usually takes a long wait to get in here, the cost of the food, and that she might feel underdressed or out of place somewhere like this. Not that she should. Not that anyone should, but especially not her. She’s like a princess. She deserves to have the very best of everything. This place should be lucky to have her.

“Are you sure?” she asked, still leaning forward a little, her elbows resting daintily on the table.

Ah. So it’s definitely the money that hits her as the biggest issue.

“I’m the host here, remember?” I tell her with a smile. “I wouldn’t be doing my fair city justice if I just took you to a chain restaurant that you could get anywhere in the UK. They’re all full of tourists there, anyway.”

She chuckles a little at that, seeming to relax. “I’ve just… never been somewhere like this before.”

“I know,” I say, easily, letting the teasing words roll off my tongue. “They don’t have anywhere else like this, anywhere in the world.”

She shakes her head with a grin, the teasing allowing the tension to break. “So, you know the chef? What’s good here?”

“Everything,” I say, which is no exaggeration. I tap the menu resting on the table, which is only one page long. “But seriously, I don’t know. They change the menu every week or so. That’s one of the joys of coming here. You never know what you’re going to get.”

“Wow,” she says, her eyes wide again as she looks back at the menu. I see her eyes catch on something in particular, and I realize I haven’t even read it myself yet. I start reading, my stomach letting me know that it’s been a while since lunch as I go through mouth-watering descriptions of food that all sounds amazing.

“I don’t know what I’m going to get,” I confess, shrugging my shoulders helplessly. “It all sounds incredible.”

“Me, either,” she says, looking up at me with wide eyes filled with relief. “God, I thought it was just me. Everything sounds so good.”

“That’s settled, then,” I tell her. I glance up at the waiter – that’s all I need to do, here. He’s always on alert, ready to spring into action, and he approaches the table at a brisk clip.

“Are you ready to order, sir?” he asks.

I try not to smile at the look of panic on Gabriella’s face. “Yes,” I tell him. “We’ll have one of everything.”

“Everything?” he says, confirming it with a twinkle in his eyes. I think he’s excited about the size of the check he’s going to be handing me at the end of this meal.

“Yes, please,” I say, lifting my menu to hand it to him. “And a couple of your house cordials for our drinks. Thanks.”

“Certainly,” he says, taking Gabriella’s menu as well with a short bow and then disappearing.

“One of everything?” Gabriella says when he’s gone, her voice low and full of… I don’t know. Maybe awe.

“Is there an echo in here?” I joke. “How else are we supposed to figure out which dish is the best?”

“I don’t know the exchange rate by heart, but I know those are big numbers on the menu,” Gabriella says. Almost warningly. Like she’s telling me off for spending too much money on her. I think I love it.

“And I don’t often get the chance to spend those kinds of numbers on a guest, so let me enjoy it,” I tell her. It’s not just a tactic to make her feel better. I really do enjoy treating the people I care about. Since that circle is very small, it means I can do it whenever I feel like it without going overboard. In my own life, there isn’t a whole lot that I need or want that I can’t just buy, so it feels good to buy things for those who aren’t quite yet at that stage.

“I don’t think you’re going to give me a choice, are you?” she asks. She’s smiling when she says it, so I know she doesn’t mind as much as she’s making out.

“Nope,” I tell her with a grin. “So you might as well enjoy it, too.”

She chuckles and ducks her head. “Then, I guess I will. Thank you for this.”

That smile on her lips… I don’t think she realizes how powerful it is. How I would do just about anything in order to keep it there.

It doesn’t take long for the dishes to arrive. We look down in awe at the array of plates spread out between us, covering the small table. We’re just in the middle of deciding how to split up each plate when a familiar head of hair pokes around the kitchen door, and the chef himself appears to greet us.

“I wondered who it might be that wanted to try everything on the menu,” he says, casual and friendly as he leans on the wall next to our table. He’s still wearing his chef whites, his hands clutching a dishcloth as they always seem to be. I can never tell whether he’s trying to stop himself from touching anything to keep his hands clean, or whether he thinks his hands are too dirty with food to touch anything.

“Hello, Marco,” I say with a smile. “This is my guest, Gabriella.”

“Gabby, please,” she says, darting a look at me which is half-sheepish. She must have been wanting to correct me all this time. I guess that with all the growing up she’s been doing, there have been a lot of changes. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“She’s a polite one,” Marco grins, nodding at her and then glancing at me. “Where’d you find her? Is that a California accent?”

I don’t do her the injustice of speaking for her. She’s more than shown me she’s capable of doing that herself, in spite of the flush that spreads across her cheeks.

“Was I too polite?” she says, waving a slightly flustered hand. “I don’t know. I’ve never met a chef before. And, yes, California.”

“Never?” Marco says, looking almost affronted. “Where else has he been taking you?”

“Nowhere else,” she says with a light laugh. “I just arrived today. I’m visiting colleges this week, and Oz and my dad are… old friends.”

I wonder just a little at the hesitation there. Why would she not be sure about that? Well, she has to be sure of it – she’s grown up seeing us as friends.

So, what other reason would she have for hesitating?

Could it be that she doesn’t want to define herself by who her dad is to me?

She’s asking Marco about the food, his inspiration behind the dishes, and that sends him off into his usual spiel about sourcing the freshest produce and bringing a refined version of the flavors of his home. It’s something I’ve heard before, and even though I do love how passionate he is, I don’t need to hear it again. I tune him out, watching, observing.

Thinking.

Thinking about the way she seems to have charmed him around her little finger already, drawing out smiles and laughter from a man who can sometimes be surly – like all chefs, he has a hot temperament. How even the waiter, glancing up from serving the next table, seems to brighten when he overhears the conversation and watches her converse. The whole room seems brighter, in fact. And she’s doing that all by herself. She doesn’t need me here to make an introduction or anything else. She’s so engaging, so bright and beautiful, that it sparks joy in everyone around her.

I would be absolutely crazy to let her get away, wouldn’t I?

Eventually, Marco moves on, off to talk to the next table and make sure everything is good with their meal. As we begin to eat our food, I can’t help but notice the differences. How he barely exchanges more than a few pleasantries with the other tables, just enough to be friendly and polite but not getting as enthusiastic as he did with Gabby. How, when she moans out loud and rolls her eyes and exclaims how amazing one of the dishes is, he’s not the only one who turns to look at her.

And he’s not even the only one with a light hint of pink appearing on his cheeks.

I don’t think she knows just how hot she is – in that dress, in the way she eats, in every movement she makes. She’s grown into a stunning young woman, and I don’t think she actually understands just how captivating she is.

Or maybe I’m putting words in everyone else’s mouths because I know that I just can’t keep my eyes off her for longer than a single second.

We don’t pause talking as we eat. We make our way through the dishes one by one, comparing the flavors, talking about the texture and how clever Marco is. How fresh every piece tastes. It’s like going to a movie with a cinema buff, you get the best conversation afterward, maybe even better than seeing the movie in the first place. That’s how it feels to be with Gabby, to experience something with her.

Except I don’t think it’s because she’s a food buff. Because she’s been like this with every topic that’s come up so far. I think it’s just that she’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever met.

How in the hell did this happen in the space of just two years?

“Alright,” I say when we’re both finished up with the last of the plates. It was a lot of food, but thanks to the smaller portion sizes, I don’t feel too uncomfortable. In fact, I think it was just about the right amount of food. “I’ll just head to the men’s room, and then I’ll get the bill. Unless you wanted to order something else?”

She shakes her head no with a light laugh. “If I ate anything else, I think I would burst. And if it was something Marco made, I would force myself to try anyway.”

I laugh back – she’s right. I get up from the table, dumping my napkin as I go, and walk towards the back of the room.

Just at the door leading through to the restroom, I stop, turn, and look back. She’s side-on to me here, and if she looked up she would see me staring, but I just want to take her in a moment longer. Her beauty. Her grace. The way she lights up the room even when she’s just sitting in silence on her own.

Holy hell, I’m in trouble. Because there’s no way I’m going to let her end this vacation and just fly home as if we’re only distantly connected. I have to make her mine – it’s a visceral need.

No. She is mine. It’s just that she doesn’t know it yet.