Page 14 of Between the Lines

Refusing was impossible, even though eating dinner with Moretti would be torturous—for them both, no doubt. But he could hear Miranda’s voice in the back of his mind, reminding him why he was there, so he gritted his teeth and said, “Thank you, I’d be honored.”

“This way, then. The dining room’s not busy, so we can eat in here.”

Jude led him into the room where they’d first talked, transformed by the evening into something magnificent. He wasn’t surprised she wanted him to see it. Twilight masked the fading carpet and wallpaper, made the aging chandelier gleam, the French doors stood wide open to catch the sea breeze which ruffled the gauzy drapes, sending them billowing, and candles flickered and danced on all the tables. But this was high season and only a couple of tables were filled, testament to the Majestic’s decline. Nevertheless, the quiet chatter only added to the fairy-tale magic of the room. “This is lovely,” Theo said, honestly.

Jude swelled with pride. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? I love this room on a summer evening.”

She led him to a table set with the kind of old-fashioned white linen that made him panic. If it were his hotel, he’d go for rustic scrubbed wooden tables instead and put some of them out on the porch. He’d lose the carpet in favor of hardwood floors, but keep the chandelier because the contrast would be charming. An awning outside would keep off any rain, a few lanterns and twinkle lights for atmosphere—

“Theo?”

He blinked and found Jude looking at him quizzically. He’d missed something.

“Please,” she said, clearly repeating herself. “Take a seat. Luca will be out to join us in a moment. Would you like wine or a beer?”

He fixed a smile on his face and sat down. “Neither, thank you, just water.” Not that he didn’t drink, but after this morning he didn’t want Moretti or Jude to consider him a drunk. Besides, when he did drink it made his coordination even worse and he didn’t want to risk sending a wineglass flying all over Jude’s white tablecloth.

“Do you serve nonresidents?” he asked, glancing around at the empty tables.

“We used to,” Jude said. “But it’s too much for us to manage alone.”

Theo knew a thing or two about hotel management, and running a place this large without help was crazy. “You don’t take on any seasonal staff?”

“Not this year, unfortunately.” Jude grimaced. “It’s a hand-to-mouth existence these days for an independent hotel.”

True enough, but it was a shame that old places like this struggled to compete. Theo felt the loss even if he couldn’t see an alternative.

They sat in silence for a while, Don bustling out of the kitchen a couple times to serve the guests at the other two tables. Theo was immensely grateful for the lack of small talk and surprised it didn’t feel awkward, but Jude seemed content to gaze out through the open doors, occupied by her own thoughts, and Theo began to hope the evening would go well.

Then Moretti showed up, looking as gorgeous as ever. For a moment, Theo was distracted by the flex of his tanned forearms under the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, but then he noticed what was on the plates Moretti carried and his heart sank. Spaghetti bolognaise, white table linen: it was a nightmare in waiting. Panic uncoiled along the length of his spine, making his hands clammy. This morning had been bad enough, he couldn’t endure any more humiliation.

“Wishart.” Moretti set the plate before him with a nod, leaning over from behind, so close Theo could feel the warmth of his chest against his shoulder, a masculine heat which set his pulse skipping. He had to work to hide his reaction, afraid it was written all over his face. Bloody annoying to find the man so attractive.

Moretti sat down opposite him and tucked in, twirling spaghetti onto his fork with effortless ease. Theo just picked at some of the meat sauce and prodded the pasta around his plate. He tried an experimental twirl, but almost dropped the fork and gave up. Unlike with bodyboarding, he knew better than to try. He’d only end up making a horrible mess all over the tablecloth and looking like the bloody spaghetti monster. Again, he imagined Grant Daly sitting here, dazzling them with his charm and twirling his fork like a pro, and felt a grasping sense of failure tug at his ankles.

“You don’t like it?”

Theo looked up, found Moretti’s eyes fixed on him. Gray as steel in this light. Sharp. Theo looked away. “It’s—Um.”You could explain, a small voice suggested. But the thought of it was exhausting; he was sick of explaining himself, and why should he have to? “I guess I’m not that hungry.”

Moretti held his gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment and Theo silently prayed he wouldn’t press the point. “Shame,” Moretti said eventually, looking away. “It’s pretty good. Right, Mom?”

Jude tutted, and Theo couldn’t tell from her expression who had irritated her more—himself or Moretti.

“I’m sure it’s very nice,” Theo ventured into the silence. Embarrassed and frustrated, he felt a hot, panicky sensation tighten his chest. Everything was suddenly too much and all at once. Lungs cramping, skin crawling. Shit, not this. Not now. He put his fork down and it clattered loudly against the plate, falling off and splashing spaghetti sauce onto the pristine white linen.Fuck.

Moretti looked up, startled by the noise. “You okay?” In another man, his frown might have indicated concern, but in Moretti it was probably impatience.

“Yes.” But Theo’s breathing was catching in his throat. “No.”

“You need some water?” Moretti reached for Theo’s glass.

He shook his head, scrambling to his feet, the chair snagging on the carpet as he pushed it back. He only just caught it before it fell. “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I need...” Air. Quiet. Solitude. He didn’t look at Moretti but could feel his judging gaze on him, a prickly heat against the side of his face. “I need to get to bed.”

Jude frowned. She must think him rude, or strange—both, probably—but it couldn’t be helped. He had to get out. “Well, goodnight,” she said. “I hope you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Sure, he will,” Moretti said quietly. “He’ll sleep it off.”

What did that mean? Theo stared at him. Did Moretti still think he was drunk? But Moretti didn’t look up, his attention fixed on his plate as he twisted spaghetti onto his fork, brow drawn down into a disapproving line. Fantastic.

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