Nobody Does It Better. JENNIFER LABRECQUE
well, Holly.” The way her name rolled off his tongue shot a small thrill through her. “And I’m Gage. Never underestimate the power of caffeine and food.”
Yeah. And panties that weren’t clammy against her skin would also go a long way toward making her feel human again. But she wasn’t sharing that with a guide who scored an eleven on the one-to-ten hot meter. “There is that. How’s yours?”
She’d been torn between the sfogliatelli, a ricotta-and-fruit-filled pastry, or a simple brioche. Mr. Carswell—um, Gage—had ordered the brioche and she’d opted for the sfogliatelli. She’d lost twelve pounds before the trip, thanks to Weight Watchers, but she’d be damned if she’d count points in Venice. At least the cheese was a protein and there was some fruit in there. Besides, dinner last night had consisted of a hastily scarfed-down granola bar. One bite of the sfogliatelli and she’d thought she was in heaven. But then nothing had ever smelled quite as good as the aromas that had assaulted them when they’d walked through the door of the cozy shop with its glass counter of fresh pastries and strong coffee perfuming the air.
“Excellent. The food and drink is outstanding in Venice.”
Well, this was some scintillating conversation between. What was next? The weather. She took another bite of sfogliatelli and a silence settled between them. Around them, the other patrons chatted in a mix of languages. She heard a snippet or two of English.
When they came in, Holly had snagged a table at the picture window overlooking the narrow stone-paved street.
Holly people-watched through the glass now, a part of her scanning the face of every female passerby on the off chance it might be Julia. That was crazy. Maybe the whole trip was crazy. Doubts crowded her. All the money, the time, the plane trip to find a woman who most likely didn’t want to be found. She shook the doubt off. Coming here, finding her mother, meant Holly was taking charge, setting the course of this relationship.
And Holly had been three the last time she’d seen Julia. How likely was she to recognize a woman she hadn’t seen since? How likely was it that her mother would stroll by the very café Holly was sitting at on her first full day in Venice? Not likely at all, but she couldn’t seem to stop searching the faces for her, all the same.
It was even less likely that her mother would walk into this place, but she still took note of every woman coming in. And if she was honest, it also helped her ignore the heavy thumping of her heart brought on by her substitute tour guide.
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