Chapter 4 #2
No, she probably didn’t want him to do that. Change was hard. But what would be even harder was losing the deli, and Luca was fairly certain that was a real possibility.
“Did you read my email?” Luca asked steadily. He’d told himself he would not lose his temper and so far his grip on it remained firm.
After all, he’d known he’d get some pushback.
There was even a strong chance Giana would tell him to leave.
If that was the case, then he wouldn’t feel guilty—he wouldn’t—about continuing to take their loan payment every month even though it would probably guarantee they’d ultimately end up closing their doors.
It would be a damn shame, and Luca wasn’t going to take the chance that fighting might save it.
“What email?” Giana asked.
“I sent it to the restaurant email address,” Luca said, still trying for patience. He cracked eggs into a pitcher, one at a time. Using the routine movement to keep his pulse steady. “Last night.”
“Oh, I don’t really check that,” Giana said, waving a hand. “Enzo does sometimes, if he’s expecting something.”
You will not get pissed off. You will not get annoyed. You will not swipe this whole bowl with all its ingredients off the counter in frustration.
Luca counted to ten and then spoke. “You are the business owner. It’s your responsibility to keep an eye on its pulse. Email is important. You should be checking it at least every morning and every afternoon.”
Giana didn’t look happy about that, but after a long moment of pointed silence, she did disappear into the little nook of an office. Hopefully, he thought, to do something right and read her goddamn email.
Luca moved on to chopping parsley and rosemary for the meatballs before adding the big finely minced pile to the bowl.
He added dried oregano. Salt and pepper. Then carefully began to mix.
Luca, darling, he could hear his Nonna’s voice in his head reminding him, make sure you don’t ever overmix. Leads to a tough meatball, and nobody wants that. They want a meatball that melts in your mouth. Like a kiss.
Now he was thinking about that guy from the Inn.
The one from the car.
His lips were the most kissable ones Luca had ever seen.
Not that Luca probably had a chance at any kisses after he’d annoyed the guy twice.
Well, it annoyed Luca he still didn’t know his name.
And that after such a late night, when he’d walked downstairs for breakfast this morning, those lips hadn’t been anywhere to be seen. He’d been so tempted to just ask who the guy was, but that made him look more than a little desperate.
You are more than a little desperate.
Okay, he was. He wouldn’t be here forever. He might not even be here tomorrow. All he wanted was a chance at a nice dinner, shared between two people, and some kisses after. Oh and a nice hot romp in his Inn bed.
It was plenty big enough for two.
That wasn’t asking for too much, was it?
He formed the meatballs, feeling the size of them in his hands as he rolled, placing them all on a sheet tray, then drizzling the whole lot with olive oil.
He was checking the sauce, adjusting the seasonings until it tasted perfect, just the way all the cooks at every Nonna’s did every single morning, when Giana appeared in the kitchen again.
She looked a little shell-shocked.
“You want to make all these changes?” She shook a sheaf of papers in her hands.
Luca forced himself not to roll his eyes. Of course she had printed out his email. Probably for dramatic effect, because that was something Nicoletta might do, if she felt cornered and also felt like making melodrama out of the whole thing would improve her situation.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“And you’ll suspend the monthly payments, if we do.”
“Yes.”
Luca knew better than just about anyone else the best way to take the wind out of his family’s sails: by refusing to engage.
She could take or leave the plan, but what he wasn’t going to do was argue with her about it.
He’d tried so many times to argue and finagle and wheedle with Gabe, and all that had gotten him was estranged from one of his brothers.
Maybe Nicoletta would be angry he hadn’t tried harder, but this was a two-way street, Luca reasoned. If Giana wanted to be fixed, she had to be open to the idea of being fixed.
“What if we make only some of these changes?”
“No,” Luca said.
“But—”
“No,” Luca repeated, more firmly this time.
“I can’t guarantee your business will recover, Giana.
I’m not a genie. I don’t grant wishes. I don’t see the future.
But I do know how to run a successful restaurant.
I think you can turn things around. That’s my assessment that you’re waving around so dramatically. Our final offer, so to speak.”
He wiped his hands off on a towel. “Call Enzo,” he added. “Bring him in, because he should be part of this conversation, even if he doesn’t want to be part of this business, and make a decision. I’m going to go get some coffee, and I’ll be back in half an hour.”
She gaped at him. “Half an hour? You’re going—” She hesitated. “And what do you mean about Enzo?”
Luca removed his apron. Rolled his sleeves back down.
Grabbed his jacket. It felt like putting his armor back on.
“Giana,” he said in a warning tone, “I’ve been nice about this.
I’ve tried to be understanding. I’ve given you leeway.
I’ve let you argue with me, even though you called me.
But do not, do not ever, mistake my temporary kindness for niceness.
I’m not here to be your sweet nephew. I’m here to fix what’s broken. ”
And he walked past her and out the door.
He knew where he was going from the moment he’d decided to give Giana some time to consider the proposal.
Because one, he could always use another cup of coffee, and two, he was undeniably curious about the busy and inviting bakery, and three, if Giana actually agreed to make the necessary changes, they were going to need to find fresh bread somewhere because the deli was not capable of baking it daily.
The bakery was only a few blocks down the road but positioned on the corner of the two biggest streets, Main and Hydrangea, and it had big wide spotless windows with the name Sweetie Pie’s Bakery & Cafe emblazoned across them in a swirly bright magenta script, with little heart-shaped pies dotting the glass.
Luca pulled the door open and was immediately greeted with the scent of rich, dark coffee and cinnamon and butter, with a deeper, richer tang of sausage swirling through.
It was exactly the experience he wanted visitors to Nonna’s to experience—just with their red sauce.
This guy Oliver knew what he was doing.
Not that Luca had really doubted it.
His location was prime. It was inviting. Then you walked inside and you never wanted to leave, because the scent was an intoxicating and nostalgic combination of your grandmother’s kitchen right after she pulled bread out of the oven and the best coffee shop you’d ever visited.
“Hello there,” a lady with bright red hair said as he approached the counter.
The actual sitting area wasn’t large—only about a dozen small tables, old-fashioned and spotless, with a tiny glass vase filled with fresh flowers on top of each one—and Luca assumed that the majority of his square footage was reserved for the bakery in the back.
About half the tables were occupied. One older gentleman was typing away on his laptop with two cups beside him, like he’d been there all morning already.
“Good morning,” Luca said, about to order a large black coffee, but then he looked to his right and was lost.
He’d eaten breakfast before starting the day, but just glancing over at the spotless glass case, stretching across nearly the entire width of the café and filled with a plethora of delectable-looking options, had him changing his mind.
“Interested in trying anything from the case? We can heat it up, to order, if you like,” the red-haired woman said with a wink that told Luca just how many people came in here only for coffee and left with coffee and something sweet and delicious.
“Uh,” Luca said scanning the contents. There were the savory pastries—little hand pies, with perfect crimped edges, in flavors like sausage, brie and cranberry, and also white cheddar, egg, and bacon—and then there were the sweets.
Chai spice twists and cinnamon buns and butter pecan hand pies.
Cherry and apple tarts.
And a few empty white plates, with muffin markers next to them. Apple cinnamon pecan crumble sounded suspiciously like what he’d enjoyed just this morning.
“Want a recommendation?” she asked cheerfully.
He looked up and no doubt he was wearing an expression of fervent gratitude, because how did one choose?
He wanted to try one of everything, especially if this baker was the one who’d crafted the muffins he was devouring, calories be damned, every single morning he’d been in Indigo Bay.
“Yes, please,” he said. “And tell me, does this bakery make the muffins I’ve been eating every day at the Sweetheart Inn?”
She smiled. “Yep, Oliver bakes for a lot of the bed-and-breakfasts in town, for sure. But the Sweetheart Inn, definitely, cause his momma owns it.”
“Oh?” Luca was interested. Only because anyone this talented in the kitchen was always of interest to him. Even if there was no way he could possibly lure him away from this successful business and convince him to move to Napa and work for Nonna’s.
But the fantasy was nice.
“I’m surprised Joy hasn’t told you all about it,” the woman said, “but then she’s on deadline, so she might’ve had her head in the computer. But if you want a recommendation, you can’t go wrong with the chai spice twist. It’s fall in a bite.”
Luca raised an eyebrow.
She laughed. “Yes, I know, it’s not even really spring yet, but trust me, you’ll love it.”
“Sounds great. I’ll take that and a large coffee, too.”
“Sure thing. I’ll just heat it up.”
“Is Oliver here, by any chance?” Luca asked. “I was hoping to chat with him about a business proposal.”