Chapter 9
9
Andreas noticed that Sophie was trying to keep her expression carefully cool as he led her up the cobbled lane from where he’d parked the car, but her eyes lit up as she took in the crumbling stone walls, the wooden shutters and the planters bursting with spring flowers on every doorstep and windowsill. With the heat from the lake at his back, he was far from the crisp air and wooden gables of home, even though the run-down cabin where he lived most of the time was only two hours away by car.
He probably hadn’t needed to warn her about the state of the apartment. No matter how she looked these days, she’d slept in her share of tents at one time. But when he led her up the tiled steps, unease shivered through him, as though he were letting her into more than just his grandparents’ holiday apartment.
Through the small front hall, they emerged directly into the kitchen diner, the heart of the place, with its open fire and exposed beams. The cabinet and dining table were of old, scratched wood, heavy and solid – farmhouse furniture from long-dead relatives. Her footsteps made muted clicks on the ceramic tiles and she gazed around her – curiously, without judgement – and that was almost worse. He wondered what she’d find of him here and wished he didn’t care.
She’d changed a lot since they’d been together. Her hair was shorter, her face sharper – her expressions much sharper. The chic outfits were new, too, although he’d rarely seen her at work back then. He preferred smudged outdoor gear. Then he didn’t have to worry about getting her dirty.
Her cream linen-blend blouse was a perfect reminder that he couldn’t touch her now anyway.
Forcing his eyes off her for the hundredth time since he’d picked her up, he strode across the kitchen to wash his hands at the farmhouse-style sink, indicating her bedroom, through the door to the right.
‘Take as long as you want to settle in and then we can get some dinner,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I’ve got the weather forecast for the week. We can discuss what you need to do.’
‘I’m not sure I have the energy for more arguments.’ She spoke quietly, her voice muffled by the distance between where Andreas stood and where she’d disappeared into her room.
‘I didn’t say anything about arguments!’ Cutting himself off with a huff when he realised he was energetically disagreeing with her again, he continued more mildly, ‘I promise not to take my cynicism out on you any more.’
She appeared in the doorway. ‘We don’t have to work over dinner – and you don’t have to take me to dinner. I’m used to being on business trips alone or in charge of everyone else. Then you don’t have to pack away your mood to spare me. I’m sure you’ll be sick of weddings by the time we’re done.’
He studied her for a moment. ‘I’m sorry for what I said in the car. I am trying.’ I want to take you to dinner. I’m happy to see you. You look stunning in that outfit. I like your haircut. I like the way you said you’re usually in charge. ‘ And there are only two restaurants in this town, so chances are we’d run into each other anyway.’
She blinked at him for long enough that he felt heat rush up his neck. ‘That really would be awkward,’ she muttered.
The warmth of the day was still hovering over the lake when he led the way down the steep, winding lane to Via Marniga, the main street, such as it was. He felt somewhat at home here, far from the bustling towns of Riva and Garda where throngs of tourists flocked to the waterfront. Brenzone was the name of a cluster of small villages clinging to the hillside on the eastern bank of the lake and this one, Marniga, was barely on the map.
The town was little more than a few cobbled streets, a cluster of multicoloured buildings scattered with cypress trees and tucked into olive groves, with the slopes of the Monte Baldo massif rising behind. Residents strung their washing from the upper windows and the lanes were too narrow for cars to pass.
‘Where do you usually stay in this area?’ he asked.
‘At the same hotel as the wedding party. We’ve held weddings in Sirmione and Limone sul Garda, as well as a couple in the Valpolicella region and one in Verona itself. I do know the area quite well, just not the…’
‘Interesting bits,’ he completed for her, with a quick lift of his eyebrows to indicate he was joking.
The restaurateur greeted him with a warm handshake. ‘Good to see you again, Andreas!’ he exclaimed in German with a hint of an Italian accent. ‘Is it business or pleasure tonight?’ he asked in a low voice as Sophie drifted towards the terrace with its wide view over the lake, the sun shooting colours across the sky as it set.
‘Business.’
‘Che peccato, my friend,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘Such a shame your colleagues are always so beautiful.’
Andreas grimaced, remembering that he’d come here with Kira several times over the past few years. But the owner thankfully said nothing as he went to sit down. It was early for an Italian dinner, but at least the temperature was still mild enough to sit outside on a spring evening.
Sophie ordered a glass of Valpolicella and the owner disappeared again, leaving only the two of them and the familiar sensation that he’d never worked out how to do romantic dinners. Not that this was romantic.
‘You didn’t order anything?’ she asked.
He just gave her a smile and blew out the candle on the table, moving it aside to unfold the map he’d brought with him. Best stick to business. ‘I’ve marked several summits on here, but we’ll need to narrow it down to the ones most likely to be what you want.’
The restaurant owner reappeared with two glasses of red wine. ‘Your schiava,’ he said pointedly.
‘Grazie,’ Andreas replied, exaggerating the pronunciation of the Italian. At Sophie’s curious look, he explained, ‘This is what we call Vernatsch. It’s quite unusual to find it outside of South Tyrol or labelled in Italian, but this one is both. It’s my usual order, since he doesn’t stock any St Magdalener.’
‘You don’t want to try a local variety?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Are you going to order Knodel too?’
‘He doesn’t serve Knodel,’ Andreas grumbled. ‘If he did, I would order it – or maybe not, because I’m certain the chef wouldn’t get it right.’
‘It needs a certain tang of alpine meadows in the butter, does it?’ The smile that touched her lips drew his eyes.
‘That’s it exactly,’ he quipped, wrenching his gaze back up.
They each ordered a single course and dessert and then Andreas raised his wine, prompting her with a lift of his eyebrows until she tapped her glass against his.
‘I can’t believe you,’ she began lightly. ‘How many continents have you travelled to and you’re secretly a homebody?’
‘I’m not a homebody,’ he insisted. ‘I just know where to find the best food and wine.’ He stuck out his chin.
‘Ah, I see.’ She took another sip, watching him with a look he wasn’t sure was meant to be provoking, but definitely was.
He could only hold out about a second. ‘What do you see?’
She leaned across the table and whispered, ‘It’s pride.’
He fiddled with his glass to distract himself from her lips and the itch over his skin, as though they were flirting. He was certain that wasn’t what she meant to do, but given their history, his brain kept taking him in that direction. That and her face was a masterpiece of dips and curves in the evening light, the differences between this Sophie and the Sophie from eight years ago – his Sophie – subtle and tantalising.
‘To be honest, it’s probably a little of both,’ he mumbled. ‘I… appreciate familiarity.’
‘I remember the octopus salad in Sardinia, after we got back from the four-day hike. You looked green when I offered to share.’
‘You offered me a tentacle.’
‘And you rather rudely refused,’ she countered. ‘I thought I’d been getting… you know, “vibes” from you for a few days. You were sitting so close, but then you were grossed out. I thought I’d misread you.’
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. ‘You still kissed me later that night.’ A kiss that had haunted him with its sweetness.
She froze, as though she hadn’t expected him to continue the story – or as though she’d forgotten that the tentacle had been a strange preamble to their first kiss. After ten days of trying to ignore her while he led the group, telling himself there couldn’t be anything so special about the back of her neck that he kept wanting to touch her there, as soon as she’d lifted her mouth to his, he hadn’t wanted to stop.
So they hadn’t stopped. Andreas had never been so thankful for a private leader’s cabin at that camping ground. By the time they’d emerged the following morning, he’d discovered just how heady it was to touch her – and all the places that made her feel good.
Including the pulse point under her jaw, the one that was fluttering right now. She swallowed heavily and he didn’t dare glance up. He focused on the collar of her linen shirt to remind himself that this was wedding-planner Sophie, not lightly sunburnt, infectiously cheerful Sophie.
He’d missed that chance …
She cleared her throat, a small, neat sound that nevertheless held a hint of the same potent memories. ‘I’m surprised you let me, given I’d just been eating octopus salad.’ She forced a laugh and took a long sip of her wine. ‘Tentacle kisses.’
He snorted his wine, spluttering a cough. ‘That wasn’t necessary,’ he said with a pained sigh. ‘I had fond memories of those kisses, but apparently I’d forgotten about your bizarre sense of humour.’
‘Bizarre? Mine? You used to joke about people falling off cliffs and if that’s not poor taste…’
Sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms, he said, ‘Dark humour is a self-preservation tactic.’
‘You didn’t think weird humour might be as well?’
He stilled, his mind racing as he watched her across the table. He suspected he knew what she was protecting herself from. Dinner together had been a bad idea. Sitting across the table from each other, talking while avoiding the many topics that would lead them into trouble, was exhausting.
A waitress arrived with their mains, bringing the scent of spring onions and fresh fish to tease his nose and trigger his appetite, but he only reluctantly cleared away the map that lay ignored between them. It wouldn’t be wise, but he wanted to keep wallowing in the memories – make her remember.
He wanted to make her regret – even if it was only for a moment – giving up on him, on them . But, God, that was selfish. He’d pushed her towards the exit and even though he’d had a wobble after he got back from Gasherbrum, the fact remained that he still couldn’t give her what she really wanted.
Marriage. Maybe a family. At the very least a partner who put her first and came home to her. Whatever she’d been looking for with Rory Brent.
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because she eyed him before swiping her wine glass and taking a deep sip. ‘Buon appetito,’ she mumbled, picking up her knife and fork and flaying her lasagne with gusto.
Taking his time, he tucked his serviette into his collar and sliced his first piece of fish. ‘Guadn,’ he replied mildly in Tyrolean.
They managed to eat silently for several minutes, but he could see Sophie getting fidgety with no safe topic of conversation. In the past, she would have asked him about the word he’d said, peppered him with questions about home and his family – which he’d answered cagily, because the combination of Sophie and his family had felt like walls closing in on him.
But this time, when she finally gave in and opened a new topic, it wasn’t what he’d expected. ‘Do you want to tell me about the peaks? Lily and Roman are quite keen on one with a cross to mark the summit.’
Lily and Roman? Ah, right. The bride and groom. The reason he was here. A safe topic of conversation. They had business to discuss. He was not here to remember little details about Sophie that would drive him crazy while he lay in bed that night.