Tempted By A Caffarelli: Never Say No to a Caffarelli

Rafe picked up his glass again. ‘It was, but in a way it was better they went together. I can’t imagine how either of them would’ve coped if they were the one left behind.’

A thoughtful expression settled on her face. ‘Is that what you hope to find? A love like that?’

Rafe refilled both of their glasses before he answered. ‘I guess I’ll have to settle down one day. Sire a few heirs.’

‘You make it sound rather clinical.’

‘I come from a long line of Caffarellis. We’re meant to marry and reproduce, ideally in our early thirties. It’s a familial responsibility. Romance has very little to do with it.’

It had had nothing to do with his grandfather’s marriage, which had been arranged by his grandfather’s parents to increase wealth and possession of property. But, from what Rafe had gleaned from staff or relatives of staff who had previously been in the family’s employ, it had been a miserable marriage from day one.

‘So how will you go about selecting a suitable wife?’ she asked. ‘Check her teeth and bloodline? Conduct auditions to see if she knows what cutlery to use? Take her for a trial ride, so to speak?’

He chuckled as he lifted his glass to his mouth. ‘Hopefully nothing quite as archaic as that.’

‘So you plan to fall in love the old-fashioned way?’

Rafe studied her expression for a beat or two. Would he allow himself to fall in love? It wasn’t something he had ever planned on doing. He didn’t like getting attached to people. Loving someone gave them power over you. The one who loved the most ended up with the least power in the relationship. Falling in love was losing control, and the one thing he didn’t like was losing control over anything, especially his emotions. Even during sex he always kept his head. He always kept a part of himself back, which was why that kiss had unsettled him so much.

Control was his responsibility.

Hadn’t he spent his childhood protecting his younger brothers from the vitriolic and often terrifyingly violent outbursts of their grandfather? He had taken the verbal hits, and on more occasions than he liked to remember he had taken the physical ones as well. His grandfather’s unpredictable temper and emotional outbursts had made his childhood and adolescence hell at times. It had been better once he and his brothers had been packed off to boarding school in England. At least then it was just the holidays Rafe had to keep his brothers out of the line of fire.

No, falling in love was not something he planned to do any time soon, if ever.

Morgan came over to take their orders for their meals. ‘How’s the decision making going?’ she asked.

‘I’ve decided,’ Rafe said. ‘How about you, ma chérie? Do you know what you want?’

Poppy’s eyes widened momentarily at his endearment but she recovered quickly. ‘Yes, the pork belly with fennel and lime.’

‘And you, Mr Caffarelli?’ Morgan stood with pen poised over the order pad.

‘I’ll have the lamb with redcurrant glaze and red wine jus.’

Once Morgan had left Poppy leaned forwards across the table again with a quirked brow. ‘Ma chérie?’

‘It means “my darling”.’

‘I know what it means but why are you calling me that in front of her?’

‘You don’t like being called darling?’

‘Not by someone who doesn’t mean it.’

‘I’m actually doing you a favour,’ Rafe said. ‘Think of what Morgan is relaying to your ex-boyfriend in the kitchen right now—here you are, out with one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. That’s going to sting a bit, don’t you think?’

Her scowl turned into a reluctant smile that made gorgeous dimples form in her cheeks. He suddenly realised it was the first time she had genuinely smiled at him. ‘Maybe.’

‘Were you in love with him?’

Her smile faded. ‘I thought so at the time.’

‘But now?’

She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. ‘Probably not...’

‘So you had a lucky escape.’

She met his eyes across the table. ‘Thank you.’

‘For what?’

‘For making me come out tonight.’ She twisted her mouth. ‘For making me face my demons, so to speak.’

‘You mean the one who’s too cowardly to come out of the kitchen and say a simple hello to you?’ Rafe said. ‘Maybe I should think twice about asking him to cook for me while I’m staying at the manor.’

She jerked upright in her chair. ‘You can’t ask him!’

He picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip. ‘Why not?’

‘Because...because I’d like to do it.’

Rafe arched an eyebrow at her. ‘You’ve changed your mind?’

She gave a little toss of her head, which made one of her curls bounce out of its restraining clip. She tucked it behind her ear with one of her hands. ‘It makes sense, since I only live next door. Besides, he’d only be using my recipes. I might as well get the credit for them.’

‘Indeed.’

‘And I need the money.’

‘Things have been pretty lean in spite of what you told Morgan, haven’t they?’

Her brow crinkled in a frown. ‘I know I’m not very good at the business side of things. Chloe’s always telling me I’m too generous and give way too much credit to people who could pay if I made them.’

‘So why a tearoom?’ he asked. ‘Why not a regular restaurant?’

‘I knew I wanted to open a tearoom when I was about ten. My gran had taught me how to cook and I loved being in the kitchen with her. I thought I should do the right thing and get a proper qualification, but it was very different being in the kitchen in a busy Soho restaurant.’

‘So you came back to look after your gran when she got sick.’

‘Yes, and I don’t regret it for a moment.’

Rafe couldn’t help admiring her loyalty and devotion. It was so at odds with how he felt about his grandfather. He couldn’t wait to get away from him, and loathed having to visit to fulfil his familial duty, such as for birthdays and at Christmas. He rarely spoke to him unless he had to. ‘You must miss her.’

‘I do...’ She ran her fingertip round the rim of her champagne flute. ‘Do you know what I miss the most?’

‘Tell me.’