Fiona Lowe - A Daddy For Baby Zoe?

Thankfully, Mario chose that moment to return to the kitchen holding one of Raf’s shirts in his hand. He draped it over a chair. ‘Meredith, can I make you an espresso, latte, cappuccino?’

‘Dad,’ Raf said with resignation ringing in his tone, ‘pregnant women shouldn’t drink coffee.’

Mario muttered something that sounded both Italian and empathetic before saying, ‘Meredith, can I offer you tea or hot chocolate?’

‘Thank you, but there’s really no need,’ she said, zipping up her medical bag. The noise sliced through the frosty air that surrounded the two men.

‘I insist.’

Two male voices—both deep, one slightly accented—collided, tumbling over each other as Mario and Raf spoke simultaneously. Mario continued, ‘Indulge an old man and a foolish one.’

Raf shot his father a dark look. ‘I think Dad is trying to say we’re grateful for your help.’

‘As you can tell, Meredith,’ Mario said, ‘we’re sick of each other’s company and we’d welcome your delightful presence a little longer.’

‘You may also prevent me from committing patricide,’ Raf muttered under his breath.

Mario slapped the top of a very expensive, stainless-steel Italian espresso machine. ‘I can make you whatever you want and milk is good for the bambino.’

Meredith had a similar machine sitting on her kitchen bench next door and she’d been returning from the small corner shop with the milk to make herself a drink when she’d heard Raf’s pained and loud swearing.

During the first week after Richard’s death a lot of people had made her drinks, because they hadn’t known what else to do for her and it had made them feel better. But right now, with Mario’s coal-black eyes twinkling at her and Raf giving her a wry smile that held an element of save me from my father , this offer of a drink was completely different. Suddenly the idea of someone without pity or sympathy in their eyes making her a hot beverage was very tempting. ‘Hot chocolate would be great, thank you.’

‘And chocolate and hazelnut biscotti,’ Mario said firmly, opening the fridge and lifting out the bottle of milk.

‘I don’t need—’

‘Don’t even think about fighting Italian hospitality, Meredith,’ Raf said, rolling his eyes. ‘You’ll never win. Dad will feed you until you waddle.’

She grimaced. ‘I’m eight months pregnant so I already waddle.’

‘Do you?’ The words were laden with query and utterly devoid of sarcasm. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

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