her relief, the espresso came out well.
‘Now to steam and froth the milk.’ He guided her through the process, just as he had when he’d taught her to make an espresso. When he moved the steam nozzle for her with a clean cloth, his arm brushed against hers, the brief touch of his skin making her temperature sizzle.
This was crazy. She was known for being level-headed at work, good in a crisis. Reliable, calm and efficient. So why did she feel right now as if fireworks were going off inside her head? Why did she want to leave the coffee where it was, forget the milk, twist round in Gio’s arms and brush her mouth against his?
Focus, she reminded herself.
‘When you turn the pressure down, can you hear the change in the sound of the steam tap?’ he asked.
Low and husky—just like Gio’s voice. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. Bring the nozzle up a tiny bit—remember, we’re trying to keep the steam coming out almost at the surface of the milk—and let it froth.’ He was standing behind her, one arm either side of her, his hands resting on hers to help her keep the jug in the right place. ‘When the jug feels hot to the touch, the milk’s ready.’
She certainly felt hot right now. Hot and very bothered. Because his hands were strong and capable, and she could smell his clean personal scent, mixed with a citrussy tang which she assumed was shower gel or shampoo. A scent that she found incredibly arousing; she just hoped that Gio couldn’t see the way her nipples had tightened under her shirt.
‘You’re picky.’
‘Details are important,’ he said. ‘My customers expect the best. And I wouldn’t produce anything less.’
‘And yet your office is untidy. I thought perfectionists were that way about everything,’ she said.
He laughed, the smile-lines around his mouth deepening. ‘I’m a perfectionist about some things.’
For a brief moment—before she managed to suppress it—the idea flickered through her brain. What else would Gio be a perfectionist about? Kissing? Making lo—
They were making coffee, she reminded herself. Flirting and what have you was not on the agenda.
‘What we’re looking for is texture. Tiny microbubbles that make the foam and the milk one—so it settles out in the cup, not the jug. It’s got a sheen like quicksilver,’ Gio told her. ‘We’re looking for pure silk.’
Silk. Like his skin. Like his voice.
Oh, lord. She was going to drop the wretched jug in a minute.
‘OK. This’ll do nicely. Now, what I showed you was free-pouring—but that’s quite time-sensitive, and you need to build up to that. For now, we’ll spoon.’
Her mouth went dry at the thought. ‘Spoon.’
‘Spoon the froth from the jug.’
Oh-h-h. The picture that had flickered into her mind at the word ‘spoon’ had nothing to do with coffee or cutlery. She was really, really going to have to watch what she said.
‘Let the jug rest for a little while, so the foam and milk separate out a bit. Then you scoop the foam out of the jug and on to the surface of the espresso. A little bit for a latte.’
She did as he instructed.
Spoon. She couldn’t get that picture out of her head.
The picture of Gio’s body wrapped round hers.
Naked.
‘Then you hold the froth back in the jug with the spoon and pour the milk on to the coffee. It should go through the foam and lift it up, and mix with the coffee.’
She’d barely heard a word he was saying. Tonight, she’d have to go and research it on the internet, so she could make some notes—and maybe try again tomorrow when it was quiet and preferably when Gio was on a break.
‘Like so.’ He smiled at her. ‘The perfect latte. Try.’
‘It doesn’t look as pretty as yours.’
‘You can cheat a bit—some people spoon a tiny bit of foam on top of the crema and make it into a swirl with the back of a spoon. Or you can use a needle to make patterns, like starbursts or the kind of feathering a pastry chef does with icing,’ he said. ‘Or cheat even more and use chocolate syrup and a knife. But free-pouring’s the proper art.’
‘And it takes weeks to learn, you say?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Sounds as if you’re up for a challenge. I’ll teach you how to do it. And if you can do it by the end of your trial period, I’ll take you to Fortnum’s and buy you the biggest box of chocolates of your choice.’
‘And if I can’t?’
‘Then you buy me the chocolates.’ He moistened his lower lip in a way that made her heart beat just that little bit faster. ‘And I should warn you that I’m greedy.’
Fran had a nasty feeling that she could be greedy, too.
And it took every single bit of her self-control to stop her sliding her arms round his neck and jamming her mouth over his.
‘LATTE art,’ Fran said, rolling her eyes, when Gio set the cup down on her desk the following morning. On the top was a heart—with concentric rings round it. ‘You’re showing off, aren’t you?’
He pantomimed surprise. ‘You mean, you noticed?’
‘Just a tad.’ She’d noticed something else, too—the guitar case tucked away in the corner of the office. But she hadn’t brought it up in discussion with him. After what he’d told her about the way his music studies had crashed and burned, she had a feeling that he was sensitive about it. She wasn’t going to push him to talk about it unless he was ready. ‘Thank you for the coffee. Now, if you want me to sort out these figures for you, go away and leave me in peace.’
‘Your wish is my command.’ He gave her a deep bow, followed by one of the knee-buckling smiles. ‘I’ll come and get you when the cake lady’s here.’
‘Cheers.’ She smiled back, then got to work with the spreadsheet.
Gio leaned through the office doorway at the perfect moment: just when Fran had finished the stats. She printed them off and waved them at him.
‘I’ll look at them afterwards,’ Gio promised. ‘But come and taste the goodies first.’
He introduced Fran to Ingrid, the baker, who talked them through the samples she’d brought. ‘And I’m leaving before you all start trying them,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing worse than doing a taste-test and not being able to give an honest opinion because you don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. Give me a call, Gio, when you’re ready. Nice to meet you, Fran, Sally and Ian.’ She shook their hands, smiled and left.
‘Perfect timing,’ Sally said. ‘The morning rush is over, the lunchtime one won’t start for another twenty minutes—and we have chocolate cake. Oh, yessss. Those brownies are mine, all mine.’
Gio produced a knife and cut both the brownies into two. ‘No, they’re not. We’re splitting them all four ways. Except for the Amaretti, which are all mine.’
‘In your dreams,’ Fran said, scooping one of them and taking a nibble. ‘Oh, wow. Intense.’
‘Intense, good or intense, bad?’ Gio asked.
‘Definitely bad,’ she fibbed. ‘Let me save you the trouble of eat—’She didn’t get to finish the sentence, because