My Italian Heart

Chapter Nineteen

That night, I didn’t worry about my outfit too much for my dinner with Mr Larson. There was no point, seeing as it was clear David wasn’t coming back to the vineyard, and it would only have been for his benefit. He looked miserable when he left, and I hoped he was. It served him right for thinking it was OK to dictate what I wanted and needed in my life. I’d had enough of that from my family to last me a lifetime.

I wore a simple black bodycon dress, considering the comfort of the fabric more than the appearance. Adding a couple of long necklaces to make it look like I had made more of an effort. Adding a simple pair of black heels that weren’t particularly high.

I might have already realised that David wasn’t going to come back to the vineyard, but it was still a shock not seeing him there. Everyone else was getting ready to sit down together for the evening meal. Everyone except him and me. If we had still been seeing each other, I would have been considering how it would look to everyone else, us both being missing.

“Where are you going again?”

“Mr Larson’s restaurant. I’m sure you’ve come across his orders at some point. He wants to talk about business and prefers to do it in person. He can be really old-fashioned and stubborn.”

“If you had said, I could have come with you.” I took a couple of steps and closed the distance between me and Emily.

Pausing beside her, so my words drifted into her ear. “I’m OK. You can stop worrying about me now.” Smiling down at her, purely for reassurance. There was no point in her worrying about me. She couldn’t do anything to change anything, and neither could I. Speaking louder so everyone in the room could hear me, “I won’t be late, enjoy dinner.”

There was a chorus of absentminded byes as I headed for the door. I had ordered a taxi, and it was there waiting for me. It was going to be expensive, and I would have sooner driven myself, but I knew how Mr Larson was when it came to plying people with drinks. I could hardly refuse my own wine after all. I just hoped it was only wine he was serving. Mr Larson was a keen whiskey drinker, and although I would happily have a glass, I had no hope of keeping up with the rate he drank.

As we headed down the mountainside towards Lake Garda, I couldn’t stop myself from checking my phone constantly. I wanted David to message me something, anything. A few times, I opened up his messages and started typing.

Aurora: Hey, it’s just me. I hope you’re OK.

It’s just me. Well, that isn’t obvious when my name flashes up on his phone. I deleted it quickly before I did something stupid, like catching the send button.

Aurora: Why didn’t you come back to work?

Too bossy. It made it sound like I was chastising him for not coming back to a job he wasn’t even being paid to do.

Aurora: Off out on my hot dinner date, enjoy your lonely evening.

That one just made me feel a bit better, but I didn’t send it. I quickly locked my phone and slid it back into my bag. The truth was that after everything, I had no idea what I was supposed to say to the man. Telling him that my v****a had been aching for him would at least have been more honest.

The bright lights of the restaurant made my head snap up to attention. It was all on one floor, but there were three flights of stairs to get to it because it was set into the hillside. We were miles from the lake, but because of its high vantage point, the views were amazing. It wasn’t the first time I had been, and it wouldn’t be the last. Nevertheless, each time I swore to myself about halfway up that I would rather lose the contract than have to climb those stairs.

The lights felt almost blinding as I tried to see where I was going. Mr Larson seemed to favour the Christmas effect all year round, and the place had way more lights than strictly necessary. Especially given that it was part of a small local village and the surrounding area was pretty dark. I could have understood it more if he had been situated on the edge of the lake in one of the tourist hotspots.

It wasn’t a tourist-type place. There were a few non-Italian visitors, but only the ones that came to the area often enough to be practically local. It was preferred by the actual locals for that specific reason. It tended to be quieter, and you were much less likely to stumble across drunken holiday makers than if you were closer to the lake.

Mr Larson normally stood at the top of the stairs waiting for me when I arrived, but that night was different. There was no sight of him. The cute blonde with never-ending legs and a never-beginning waist showed me to a table on the terrace and informed me that he was running a little late. “I am on strict orders to get you a drink as soon as you arrive.”

“I bet you are.” She gave me a knowing and slightly sympathetic look. “I’ll take a white wine spritzer.”

“Coming right up.” Mamma would kill me if she could see me ordering such a drink, and Pops would probably keel over. In my defence, I wanted to have a lower alcohol content, but it still looked like I was drinking.

The waitress came back quickly, and it was clear that she had been ordered to treat me like some sort of VIP. She retreated just as quickly. The second I took a sip of my drink, I wished she had stuck around so I could thank her. The colouring of white wine was there, but she had barely put any in at all. I was essentially drinking coloured sparkling water. It was perfect.

I sat there sipping at it a little too quickly, enjoying the refreshing nature of the drink and the view. From where we sat in the mountains, there were slopes of mountains on both sides with the lake just sitting there in the middle between them. Glistening as it reflected the moonlight or its surface. I heard Mr Larson clear his throat and wondered how long he had been standing watching me.

“You do look ravishing tonight, Aurora.” Off to a brilliantly awkward start, as ever.

“Thank you.” He stood there towering over me as I stayed seated, despite his five-foot-five frame. It must have been the only time he towered over anyone. Not that he was aware, the way he carried on, he seemed to think he was America’s answer to a lady’s man. He seemed to think we all sat around waiting to be awed by him. Unfortunately, I had to play the part.

His greying hair was still below shoulder length and was tied back into a ponytail with a leather tie. As always, he was wearing jeans, which was ironic because they were against the dress code. Finishing it off with a black shirt and complete with his bull bolo around his neck. All he was missing was a cowboy hat for the full effect. I glanced down momentarily and noticed he was wearing black cowboy boots, too.

I struggled to stifle the giggle bubbling up in my throat. It wouldn’t have been funny, but I happened to know Larson had never been near a cow, bull, or a horse in his life. It was all some part he played, but I had no idea why he felt the need.

He pulled out his chair and took his time seating himself and whistling a long, low whistle as he did. “You do sure look mighty fine. I know I already told you, but it bears repeating. I’ve already put the order in with the kitchen. Two ribeyes will be dashing out to us real soon.” And I knew from experience they would be beyond rare. Way too rare for my liking, but the customer is always right, or so they say. Although, I wasn’t really sure which one of us counted as the customer in the scenario.

I would still eat every last bite and drink every last drop he put in front of me. I blamed Mamma for teaching us not to refuse someone's hospitality. Even if I had been vegan, I would have sat and eaten it. The whole restaurant played on the American angle. Except it was supposed to be posh American. Instead, it was a mish-mash between elegance and a diner.

The white tablecloths that were pressed immaculately and the deer head on the wall seemed to be aiming towards a more refined clientele. Then you were served with a bloody carcass on a chopping board while sitting on cheap metal chairs. Nothing felt quite right about the place.

The chef was amazing, which was why it did so well, despite the décor. If I had been able to choose my own meal, I would have been over the moon with it. I had been there a few times for pleasure when I knew Larson was away and had thoroughly enjoyed myself.

Larson, putting his fingers in the air and beckoning the waitress over, dragged my attention back to him. “Hey doll, whiskey. Neat! Aurora?”

“Same again for me.” I addressed the waitress rather than Larson and gave her a warm smile, unlike the scowl Larson was giving her. It was clear he thought she was incompetent. He could be rather sexiest. I was lucky for the most part, but I had seen him many times treating his staff like they knew nothing. Funnily, though, it was only ever the women.

The waitress nodded back at me and gave me the slightest smile, scurrying off to the bar. I made a mental note to try to get an opportunity to speak to her, away from Larson.

“Aurora, Aurora, Aurora. Beautiful as ever, I see.” I wasn't sure how many compliments were too many, but we were definitely there already.

“Thank you, Mr Larson.”

“How many times have I asked you to call me Tim?” Larson would remain Larson. I liked to keep a degree of separation between us. He did a good enough job of getting the wrong impression without me helping him along. He must have been approaching eighty. The thought made me instantly think of David, who seemed to think he was too old for me at half Larson’s age. If only he truly knew that most men didn’t care less about age, but then that was what made David a special breed.

He was trying to put me first, even if he was screwing it up. I would bet that balding Larson would never have considered the implications of his wants on anybody, including me. Everything about Larson seemed to disgust me, but really, it was his attitude infecting my mind. He was slim, if not muscular. Greying and his hairline had receded about as far as it was possible. Other than that, he was a put-together bloke. There were no tuffs of nose or ear hair. He never had bad breath and trust me, he got close enough for me to notice often. He was even a gentleman to the women he deemed worthy of his time. He was, however, relentless in trying to push a personal relationship on me, and it was getting really boring really fast.

“Mr Larson,” I said just to make the point, “I have also told you many times that I call all clients by their surnames. It is how my pops brought me up and is too engrained for me to change now.” He laid his hot, sweaty palm over mine, and I had to suppress the shiver of revulsion. “So, you said you wanted to discuss business, Mr Larson.”

Suddenly, he removed his hand. I was relieved but knew it was because he was annoyed with me. He hated that I had moved onto business so soon. At business meals, it was often something he would avoid discussing until the last possible moment, even though business was the whole reason for the meal in the first place.

I sat there and listened as he discussed a new partnership with a hotel nearer the coast. They had arrived with a local taxi company to provide lower-cost fares from the hotel to the restaurant to try to increase the number of tourists that would visit. It wasn’t remotely worth a business meal and barely even affected my business at all.

Essentially, he was asking me if we could get him a higher quantity of wine at short notice. “Of course we can. Even if you ring me in the afternoon, I can get one of the lads to run some down to you if you need it urgently.” He tried to return to non-business matters instantly. It was clear the dinner wasn’t really about business at all.

He was lonely and wanted to have some company and possibly try to press me into agreeing to more than a business relationship again. I would have left immediately, but the business talk was over so quickly that the steaks hadn’t even arrived before we were done.