Page 45 of Angel

Before I knew it, she had me in the kitchen alongside her.

She dumped flour onto the marble island, showing me how to stretch and fold a live sourdough starter into the dough for our breakfast the following morning.

By the time the bread mix was resting under a damp cloth, the sorrow in my chest felt lighter.

The next morning at breakfast, the villa smelled like heaven.

I sliced into the warm, crusty loaf, smothering a piece in thick butter and a massive spoonful of wild berry preserves.

I took a bite and exhaled, a spark of genuine, delicious happiness waking up somewhere deep inside me.

‘Food always makes life better,’ Mrs Campanelli intoned with a triumphant grin on her face.

Her magic was already working.

That afternoon, she discovered me back at my easel, and I seized the opportunity to distract us both.

‘Sit for me,’ I urged, pointing my paintbrush at the empty wicker seat. ‘Let me paint your portrait.’

She flushed as she smoothed down her clean apron. ‘Oh, no, signora. I’m just the cook.’

‘Please,’ I pleaded. ‘You have incredible bone structure.’

She agreed to the session, hoisting her chin with immense pride and a smile.

‘No one has ever painted me before, not even my boy, he only does landscapes.’

Our bond deepened as we chatted and I filled in her beautiful features with small strokes and hues.

Later, she invited me into her fragrant kitchen to help prepare the evening meal, handing me a wooden board and a bowl of mashed potatoes.

We rolled out fresh potato gnocchi, tossing the fluffy dough pillows into salted boiling water while she taught me rude words in Italian slang.

We had a whale of a time, laughing so hard our ribs ached until a shadow shifted over the terracotta floor tiles.

I jumped, whirling around as my breath hitched.

Angel.

He stood framed in the kitchen doorway, a haggard, forlorn sight, in bare feet, staring at us, his muscled, inked hands crossed over his broad torso,

He wore faded gym shorts and a wrinkled sable vest.

His untamed hair fell unkempt on his brow, and his black stubble was thicker on his jaw.

Still so freakin’ handsome, yet his face was hard, and his eyes held a profound sadness.

‘Holy crap, Angel, you scared the daylights out of me,’ I breathed. ‘How are you?’

He shrugged, giving me nothing to work with.

I plowed on.

‘You hungry? I’m making fresh gnocchi. Eat with us.’

‘I’ve no appetite,’ he grunted, his jaw clenching harder. ‘All I need is a Red Bull.’

He crossed to the fridge, pulled out a few cans before he turned on his heel and prowled away.