Tempted By A Caffarelli: Never Say No to a Caffarelli

Poppy felt herself bristling in affront. ‘I’m not asking you to marry me.’

He turned and threw her a black look. ‘You’re not my type. Do I have to spell it out any plainer than that?’

Self-doubt crept up and tapped her on the shoulder, mocking her with its cruel little taunts: you’re unattractive. You’re rubbish at kissing. You’ve got no pulling power, that’s why Oliver and every other date you’ve ever had moved on to the next girl as soon as they could.

Poppy straightened her spine and swung around to the door. ‘I’ll just get the rest of your dinner for you.’

‘Forget about it.’

‘It won’t take a minute.’ She turned back to look at him. ‘I just have to dish it up. I won’t stay, if that’s what’s—’

‘I’m not hungry.’

She forced herself to hold his unreadable gaze. ‘Will you be hungry tomorrow night, do you think?’

His eyes moved away from hers. ‘I’ll make my own arrangements with regards to food in future.’

‘Fine.’ She let out a stormy breath. ‘I’ll just get the dogs and be on my way.’

* * *

‘So how did the meal go down last night?’ Chloe asked the next morning. ‘Did you tickle Rafe Caffarelli’s tastebuds?’

Poppy kept her gaze averted as she went about getting the tearoom ready for business. She had used concealer that morning when she put on some make-up but it hadn’t done much to disguise the stubble rash on her chin. It looked like she’d been scrubbing at her face with a handful of steel wool. ‘There is something terribly defective about that man’s tastebuds,’ she said as she swished back the last of the curtains to let the watery sunshine in.

‘But you didn’t make anything sweet for him, did you?’

‘No, of course not.’ Had her mouth been too sweet for him? Poppy pushed the thought aside as she crossed the room to get the napkins out of the old pine dresser drawer. ‘He’s just one of those difficult to please customers we get from time to time.’

Chloe’s gaze narrowed. ‘What happened to your face?’

‘Nothing, just a bit of an allergy,’ Poppy said shutting the drawer firmly. ‘I probably leant too close to the honeysuckle or something.’

‘Since when have you been allergic to honeysuckle?’ Chloe came over and peered at Poppy’s chin like a scientist examining a ground-breaking discovery in the laboratory. ‘You’ve got beard rash!’

Poppy jerked her head away. ‘It’s not beard rash.’

‘It so is beard rash.’ Chloe grinned at her. ‘He kissed you, didn’t he? What was it like?’

Poppy pursed her lips and started placing the napkins by each setting. ‘I’d rather not discuss it.’

‘Did he want to sleep with you?’ Chloe asked. ‘Is that why you’re all uppity about it? Did he put the hard word on you or something?’

‘No, he did not put the hard word on me,’ Poppy said tightly. ‘He told me kissing me was a mistake, or words to that effect.’

Chloe blinked. ‘A mistake?’

‘I’m not his type.’ Poppy leaned over the table near the window to put the last napkin down and straightened. ‘Not that I want to be his type or anything—it’s just there’s a way to let a girl down gently without savaging her self-esteem in the process.’

Chloe angled her head quizzically. ‘So, let me get this straight: you wanted to sleep with him but he knocked you back?’

‘I’m not saying I would’ve slept with him, exactly...’

‘But you were tempted.’

‘A little.’

Chloe raised her brows.

‘OK...a lot,’ Poppy said as she exhaled a breath.

‘I expect he’s a very good kisser.’

Poppy’s insides gave a funny little tug and a twist as she thought about Rafe’s determined mouth on hers. ‘The best.’

‘Which you can say from such a position of authority because you’ve kissed...how many men is it now?’

‘Six...no, seven. I forgot about Hugh Lindley in kindergarten, but I guess a peck on the cheek doesn’t count.’

‘That many, huh?’

Poppy let out her breath on another long sigh. ‘I know, I know. I have some serious catching up to do.’

‘Maybe Rafe Caffarelli isn’t the right place to start,’ Chloe said, glancing at Poppy’s chin again with a little frown. ‘You could get yourself really hurt.’

Tell me something I don’t already know. ‘I’m not planning on going anywhere near Rafe Caffarelli,’ Poppy said. ‘He’s made his position clear. I don’t need to be told twice.’

* * *

A couple of days later a deafening clap of thunder woke Rafe up during the middle of the night. The wind whipped around the manor like a dervish. It howled and screamed around the eaves and rafters, making the manor shake and shudder as if it was being rattled like a moneybox.

He went over to close the window the wind had worked loose from its catch just as a flash of lightning rent the sky into jagged pieces. The green-tinged light illuminated the dower house in the distance. His stomach clenched when he saw that one of the branches of the old elm tree had come down over the roof, crushing it like a flimsy cardboard box.

He quickly threw on some clothes and found a weatherproof jacket and a torch. He pressed Poppy’s number—his phone had recorded it when she’d rung about Chutney being missing—but she didn’t answer. He didn’t bother leaving a message. He snatched up his keys and raced out to his car, calling the emergency services on the way.

The wind almost knocked him off his feet. He hunched over and forged through the lashing rain, his mind whirling with sickening images of Poppy trapped under a beam. Which room was her bedroom? He tried to recall the layout of the house. There were three bedrooms, all of them upstairs. Wouldn’t the main one be the one where the elm tree was?

He hammered at the front door once he got there. ‘Poppy? Are you in there? Are you all right?’

There was no power so he couldn’t see anything, other than when the lightning zigzagged or from his torch, which was woefully low on batteries. ‘Poppy? Can you hear me?’

The sound of the dogs yapping inside lifted his spirits, but only just. What if they were all right but Poppy wasn’t? ‘Poppy?’ He roared over the howling gale.

‘I’m up here.’

Rafe looked up and shone the torch at the pale oval of Poppy’s face next to the gaping hole in the roof. Relief flooded him so quickly he couldn’t get his feet to move at first. He felt like his legs were glued to the porch. ‘I’m coming up,’ he called out. ‘Keep away from the beams. Don’t touch any power outlets or wires.’

He picked up a rock, smashed the glass panel beside the front door and reached inside to unlock the lock. He went upstairs, carefully checking for live wires or debris, but it seemed the branch had cut cleanly through the old roof and done little else but let the elements in.