reminded that she was from a different world than the one this man was from.
“Oh,” she said, looking around the cavernous room and trying unsuccessfully to picture her father here. But she took a deep breath and went back to her story.
“Here is a picture of my aunt Lisa. Do you know her, too?”
He looked at the picture and shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”
For some reason, that was a huge relief to her.
“Good,” she muttered, turning pages. “Here are my brothers, Cristiano and Valentino.”
Max nodded, his interest only barely retained. “Nice-looking young men,” he murmured, looking back at what was left of his pasta.
“ Very nice-looking young men,” she corrected. She was crazy about her brothers. “They are both away. Cristiano is a firefighter. He’s in Australia right now, helping them with their terrible brush fires. And Valentino is a race-car driver. He’s always somewhere racing around trying to challenge death at every turn.”
He raised his head in surprise at the bitterness of her tone, and she smiled quickly to take the edge off it.
“So neither one is here helping run the restaurant,” he noted.
“That’s what my father has me for,” she maintained stoutly. “But I do wish they would come home more often.”
“Of course.”
“And finally, here is a picture of Rosa as it was two months ago, when we still had a plentiful stock of the basil. See how crowded it is? Doesn’t everyone look well fed and happy?”
He laughed softly at her characterization. “Yes,” he admitted. “I see what you mean.”
“And here is the restaurant now.” She plunked down a picture of the half-empty room and threw out her hands to emphasize how overwhelming the situation was. “Without the basil, no one is happy anymore.”
He groaned, turning his head and refusing to study that last picture. “Isabella, I get the point. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”
“It seems I do.” She gazed at him fiercely. “I want you to understand how important this is. How it means everything to my father.”
“And to you.”
“To me?” She pressed her lips together and thoughtabout it. Hearing his words surprised her, but what surprised her even more was that he might be right.
For years she’d chafed at being the one everybody depended on, the one who had to stay behind and help with the restaurant while her brothers went off in search of adventurous lives and her cousins went off to explore places like England and Australia. Isabella was the one who stayed home and kept the flames going. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair. She’d had daydreams about leaving a note pinned to her pillow and slipping out into the night, getting on a train to Rome, flying to Singapore or Brazil, or maybe even New York. Meeting a dark, handsome stranger in an elevator. Talking over a drink in a hotel bar. Walking city streets in the rain, sharing an umbrella. All scenes snatched from romantic movies, all scenes folded into her momentary fantasies. What seemed hopeful at first eventually mutated into melancholy as it aged.
And lately, even those dreams had faded. She’d been as wrapped up in finding ways to save the restaurant as her father was. So maybe Max was right. Maybe it did mean everything to her, too.
“Maybe,” she said faintly.
What did it mean when you gave up your dreams? Did they grow mellow and rich, like fine wine, warming you even as they faded? Or did they dry up and turn to powder that blew away with the wind?
“Maybe.”
Snapping back into the moment, she looked at Max, trying to see if he’d come around yet. She grimaced lightly. It certainly didn’t look like it. Those gorgeous dark eyes with their long, sweeping lashes were as cool and skeptical as ever.
She sighed. He’d finished eating and he’d finishedlooking at her scrapbook and listening to her point of view. She had only one weapon left in her arsenal. Slipping away, she hurried
“Oh,” she said, looking around the cavernous room and trying unsuccessfully to picture her father here. But she took a deep breath and went back to her story.
“Here is a picture of my aunt Lisa. Do you know her, too?”
He looked at the picture and shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before.”
For some reason, that was a huge relief to her.
“Good,” she muttered, turning pages. “Here are my brothers, Cristiano and Valentino.”
Max nodded, his interest only barely retained. “Nice-looking young men,” he murmured, looking back at what was left of his pasta.
“ Very nice-looking young men,” she corrected. She was crazy about her brothers. “They are both away. Cristiano is a firefighter. He’s in Australia right now, helping them with their terrible brush fires. And Valentino is a race-car driver. He’s always somewhere racing around trying to challenge death at every turn.”
He raised his head in surprise at the bitterness of her tone, and she smiled quickly to take the edge off it.
“So neither one is here helping run the restaurant,” he noted.
“That’s what my father has me for,” she maintained stoutly. “But I do wish they would come home more often.”
“Of course.”
“And finally, here is a picture of Rosa as it was two months ago, when we still had a plentiful stock of the basil. See how crowded it is? Doesn’t everyone look well fed and happy?”
He laughed softly at her characterization. “Yes,” he admitted. “I see what you mean.”
“And here is the restaurant now.” She plunked down a picture of the half-empty room and threw out her hands to emphasize how overwhelming the situation was. “Without the basil, no one is happy anymore.”
He groaned, turning his head and refusing to study that last picture. “Isabella, I get the point. You don’t have to rub my nose in it.”
“It seems I do.” She gazed at him fiercely. “I want you to understand how important this is. How it means everything to my father.”
“And to you.”
“To me?” She pressed her lips together and thoughtabout it. Hearing his words surprised her, but what surprised her even more was that he might be right.
For years she’d chafed at being the one everybody depended on, the one who had to stay behind and help with the restaurant while her brothers went off in search of adventurous lives and her cousins went off to explore places like England and Australia. Isabella was the one who stayed home and kept the flames going. Sometimes it didn’t seem fair. She’d had daydreams about leaving a note pinned to her pillow and slipping out into the night, getting on a train to Rome, flying to Singapore or Brazil, or maybe even New York. Meeting a dark, handsome stranger in an elevator. Talking over a drink in a hotel bar. Walking city streets in the rain, sharing an umbrella. All scenes snatched from romantic movies, all scenes folded into her momentary fantasies. What seemed hopeful at first eventually mutated into melancholy as it aged.
And lately, even those dreams had faded. She’d been as wrapped up in finding ways to save the restaurant as her father was. So maybe Max was right. Maybe it did mean everything to her, too.
“Maybe,” she said faintly.
What did it mean when you gave up your dreams? Did they grow mellow and rich, like fine wine, warming you even as they faded? Or did they dry up and turn to powder that blew away with the wind?
“Maybe.”
Snapping back into the moment, she looked at Max, trying to see if he’d come around yet. She grimaced lightly. It certainly didn’t look like it. Those gorgeous dark eyes with their long, sweeping lashes were as cool and skeptical as ever.
She sighed. He’d finished eating and he’d finishedlooking at her scrapbook and listening to her point of view. She had only one weapon left in her arsenal. Slipping away, she hurried
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