From Rome with Love: Escape the winter blues with the perfect feel-good romance!. Jules Wake
bag weighed heavily on her mind.
It had been a simple plan. Clean and effective. In and out. Finish work, drive to the pub, pick Siena up after her shift, not even have to go into the pub, then drive her home, girls’ night in, a few glasses of Prosecco and crash in the spare room.
Lisa kicked the flabby tyre of her loyal but flagging-a-bit-these-days Mini.
‘Ouch.’ Not so flabby after all.
Not wanting to abandon her car on one of the country lanes, it had limped the last quarter of the mile here. Now safe in the pub car park, she didn’t feel quite so helpless.
‘Need a hand?’ asked a languid voice from behind her.
Lisa closed her eyes and curled her fingers tight into her palms, registering the bite of her fingernails. He wasn’t supposed to be here at this time. On Tuesdays, he didn’t manage the pub until 7.30. She’d planned it so that she wouldn’t have to see him.
Quite how she resisted the overwhelming urge to gnash her teeth or growl out loud, she didn’t know. Ninety-nine point nine, nine per cent of her would have loved to tell him to get stuffed, but unfortunately there was a stupid niggly, and practical, nought point one per cent that admitted she probably did need help. While she was prepared to have a go at most things, and had got as far as taking out the flimsy-looking jack, which didn’t look as if it were capable of lifting a shoe box let alone a car, those slimy black bolts on the wheel looked completely beyond her.
She gave Will’s tall, slim frame a quick glance. Big mistake. It reminded her that his slender build belied a sinewy muscled strength and, under his clothes, the tautest, toned stomach she’d ever seen. The man had abs. Words died in her throat and she stood there, looking like a complete idiot.
‘Is that a, “Yes, gosh, Will, thanks that would be super”, I hear? Or a “Sod off, I’ve got this?”’ His fake falsetto reminded her exactly why she invested so much effort in avoiding him and his supersized ego and vastly inflated superiority complex.
He’d already approached the rear of her Mini. ‘Christ, how old is this thing? You still have a spare?’
With a determined grimace, she ignored him and dropped down by the wheel to manoeuvre the jack underneath the car, inserting the winding handle, as if she had the first clue what she was doing, saying with outward cheer, ‘No problem, I’ve got this. I can always call the AA if it’s too much trouble.’
As he hoisted the spare out, he muttered something under his breath which sounded distinctly like ‘you’re always too much trouble’.
Without saying anything else, he nudged her out of the way.
‘Thanks,’ she muttered as he set to work, kneeling on the tarmac, its surface wet from a recent shower, his head down as he started cranking up the car. It had been one of those days where the weather couldn’t make up its mind.
‘You here to see Siena?’
‘Yes,’ she answered shortly, glaring down at the stubby blonde ponytail brushing the back of his neck. Grown men shouldn’t have surfer-boy hair and it shouldn’t be sexy. He wasn’t sexy. Or even likeable. But a memory surfaced of that long hair brushing her skin when loose, bringing with it a quick flutter of awareness. The long hair helped create a casual look, when Will was anything but casual, except for his dealings with women.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot and pushed her hands into her pockets. The flutter turned into full-scale butterflies and she froze, praying that none of this was obvious. The butterflies could just sodding well back off and behave. She. Did. Not. Have. Feelings for Will.
With studied nonchalance, she looked around at the rolling green hills surrounding the village nestled in the valley, its line of houses following the ribbon of a stream that flowed down to the River Ouzel. She sighed, the sight soothing her. The pub, despite its ownership, was one of her favourite places. Perched on the edge of the wide green, the sturdy brick-and-timber construction had been in situ for several hundred years, standing guard over the inhabitants with imposing presence.
‘You can go in, if you like.’ Will had raised the car up. ‘Siena’s nearly finished her shift.’
Despite being here to see Siena, it didn’t seem right to abandon Will in the damp car park when he was doing her a favour, even though he was the last person on the planet that she wanted to spend any time with.
‘Do you need any help?’ she asked, with a barely concealed sigh. It was difficult to overcome a lifetime’s training of good manners.
He gave her an amused look.
Then again …
She turned her back on him and surveyed the quiet car park. In less than an hour, the pub would be buzzing. Whatever other faults he had, and there were a gazillion, Will certainly knew how to run a successful business. People came from miles around to eat here.
‘I hear you’re opening a new restaurant. That’ll be nice.’
With one raised eyebrow, he managed to make her regret opening her mouth.
‘I’m just making small talk. It feels a bit bad to abandon you when you’re being all chivalrous and fixing my car for me.’ She shivered, conscious of a light bite to the air. Summer was taking its time to arrive this year.
‘I’ve been waiting for the right location.’
‘Location, location, location,’ she said, not that she had any idea about suitable locations. The street where her tiny terraced house was located in the nearby town wasn’t about to make it onto any television programmes in the des res stakes.
‘It’s important, but I finally found the sweetest spot. The old post-office building on the High Street.’
‘Really? It looks a bit grot.’
‘It won’t by the time I’ve finished.’ Will’s quiet, confident declaration was no idle boast. When they’d lived in the village as teenagers, the pub had been the haunt of elderly men who nursed one pint over endless dominoes marathons. He’d transformed this place.
‘Hmm.’ She didn’t have the imagination for that sort of thing. ‘What sort of food are you going to do?’
‘Authentic Italian. Want to come and work for me?’
‘No thanks …’ Although there was no point cutting her nose off; the extra money would come in handy – as a teaching assistant she was only paid for term-time. ‘Well, maybe in the holidays, but I’m only half Italian, so probably not authentic enough,’ she added.
‘I’m not that fussy.’ He gave a careless shrug. ‘A waitress is a waitress.’
‘Don’t we know it,’ snapped Lisa. With a sniff she flounced off into the pub. He could bloody well get on with it, then.
‘Hey, Lisa.’ Siena tossed down her tea towel and stepped out from behind the bar to give Lisa a swift hug. ‘You looked seriously pissed off.’
‘Flat tyre.’ Lisa rolled her eyes. ‘I got it on the way here.’ And a run-in with her least-favourite person on the planet.
‘Bummer. Do you need to call someone?’ Siena shrugged, with her usual Gallic charm. Although English, she’d spent most of her life in France and had been born with a silver spoon in her red-lipped little bouche. Lisa smiled. She couldn’t imagine Siena even attempting to change a tyre.
‘Will’s changing it for me.’ Lisa flashed her friend a wicked grin.
‘Is he now?’ Siena raised one of her elegantly arched eyebrows, managing to combine surprise and feline amusement with a mere shapely lift.
‘He might