I swallow –hard. I’m wearing the bare minimum – all I had time to apply before Megan called.
I go to speak, but Mark Darcy pops into my head, telling Bridget Jones that he likes her just as she is.
‘Uh,’ I say, doing my best to regain my composure, ‘I’ll go grab my purse.’
He smiles and my heart follows my stomach off the diving platform.
16
DELANEY
The walk to the restaurant is reasonably short – thank god, because these heels are already killing me – and quiet.
Well, notquietas such – we’re enveloped by the richly textured soundscape of the island – people outside restaurants laughing and talking in multiple languages, the sharp cries of seagulls, the chatter of sparrows, a light breeze rustling in the trees, the clatter of my heels on the stone path.
But there’s no conversation – not ideal when we’re spending the next couple of hours together at dinner. But maybe Nick’s lost in thought like I am.
When we arrive at the restaurant, he opens the door for me – a small but sweet gesture that’s very date-like – and I thank him, lifting my gaze to meet his.Nope, don’t do that, Delaney.I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting as I look around. The maître d’, an attractive forty-something man, greets us with a smile.
‘Buonaserae benvenuti a Ristorante Azzurra di Mare.È un piacere avervi con noi.’ He must clock the confusion on my face because he seamlessly switches to English. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you here. Do you have a reservation?’
‘Thank you – it’ll be under Delaney Cole.’
‘Ah,sì, Signorina Cole, Signor James, this way please.’
Forgetting what I’vejusttold myself, I grin at Nick, who grins back, and we follow the maître d’ out onto a limestone terrace, where round tables sit discreetly apart. He leads us to a table at the centre of the terrace, right next to the low stone wall. A crisp white tablecloth flutters gently and a sprig of rosemary rises from a handblown-glass bud vase. I inhale deeply, the scent of rosemary mixing with the lemon and brine in the air.
The maître d’ pulls out my rattan-backed chair and Nick takes the seat opposite. As I sit, my eyes are drawn to the incredible view.
A patchwork of rooftops spill across the hillside, glowing in the setting sun. White pinpricks of string lights dance amongst the trees or adorn balconies like strands of pearls. Below us, the piazza bustles with families and couples – locals and tourists mingling. The campanile stands proudly, its face illuminated, keeping time for us all. And the seagulls we heard on the way here arc across the sky, silhouettes now, loudly declaring the close of the day.
Ireallywant to get this on film. Finn and Lexi need to have dinner here – at sunset. I smile to myself. That epilogue’s going to be so epic.
‘The chef is preparing a special menu for you,’ says the maître d’, dragging me from my thoughts. He hands us each a one-page menu written in English. ‘And the sommelier will come soon to recommend some wine.’ He places a leather-bound wine list on the table. ‘Can I offer you an apéritif?’ he asks.
‘Well, we are sort of celebrating,’ says Nick, ‘so how about two glasses of prosecco?’
‘Of course,signore.’ He gives us a smile and leaves.
‘I realise it’s premature,’ says Nick, ‘celebrating, but?—’
‘Hey, no, not at all – you gotta celebrate the milestones.’
He grins at me. ‘That’s what I was thinking too.’
‘So, I don’t know about you but when I heard “chef’s-table dining”, I envisioned somethingcompletelydifferent. I figured we’d be cloistered near the kitchen at a tiny table, right in the thick of the action.’
‘I guess I hadn’t given it much thought. Are you disappointed?’ he asks.
‘Hell no. This iswaybetter. If the food sucks, the view alone is worth it.’
He laughs softly, then looks out at the view, his gaze panning slowly from right to left.
‘You’re doing what I did,’ I say, and his head swivels towards me, his expression curious. ‘Picturing the shot.’
‘Well, obviously this needs to be in the montage.’
‘Totally. But we’ll have to make sure it doesn’t come across as a tourism commercial for Capri.’