Page 23 of An Italian Wedding Adventure

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 Knödel too?’

‘He doesn’t serve Knödel,’ 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 –hisSophie – 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.

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