Page 27 of Be Still My Unbeating Heart

“Work,” he said.

Her gaze sharpened. “Is that so? Are you thinking of getting into the ice-cream business? How charming.”

Bastian glanced between them, the tension impossible to overlook. No wonder the inspector had balked at the idea of using the gelateria as a base for their stakeout. Bastian had assumed that he feared the spot was too conspicuous, that Zappa might see them and bring down the iron fist of the law on them both. Now, though, he sensed a different, entirely more personal reason.

“Oh dear, Whitby, this is awkward,” he said as the cat hopped up onto the counter and eyed the colorful trays of frozen delights. “Perhaps we had better go someplace else.”

Arianna grimaced. “No, forgive me. You’re very welcome here. Please, stay.”

Bastian wasn’t convinced. Her Disney-princess eyes were clouded with annoyance and her mouth had shrunk to a point. He liked the idea of a stakeout with gelato, though. It had a certain fun romance to it. Human food didn’t quench his thirst, but it was entertaining in its own way.

“Well, if you insist,” he said. “Inspector?”

De Luca grumbled something under his breath, then turned away, taking out his phone and standing by the window.

Bad breakup, Bastian decided. It couldn’t be anything else.

Did that mean De Luca was straight? Probably for the best. Bastian really had to stop thinking about the inspector’s eyelashes. And fingers. De Luca would only scowl with annoyance if he knew Bastian was thinking about those things. But now that the inspector’s back was turned, Bastian couldn’t help noting the quality of his butt in those poliziotto pants. It was undeniable.

Bastian gave himself a good shake.

Your neck is on the line and you’re getting gooey-eyed over a pretty policeman. Get. A. Grip.

“Well, this looks fabulous,” he said, marveling at the gelato. He read out the labels, which were printed in both Italian and English. “Strawberry Smash, Mint Choc Chip, Banana Caramel—my favorite! Nowhere sells banana caramel anymore!”

Arianna sounded bored as she said, “A lot of people think it’s old-fashioned, but I believe a classic never dies.” She must have recited the line a hundred times.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Bastian said, making up for the enthusiasm vacuum with as much pep as he could muster. “De Luca, youmusttry it.”

“No, grazie.” The inspector was still by the window. Bastian wished he’d loosen up.

“And you make these all yourself?” Bastian asked Arianna, who nodded.

“Using the same recipe my grandma used all her life, and hers before. They were called Arianna, too. You could say we’re sort of traditional around here.”

She raised a hand to gesture dispassionately at a framed document beside a stack of waffle cones. Bastian scanned the text, which detailed the history of her family and their love for gelato and ended with a promise that their ice cream was the best in Vernazza thanks to the closely guarded secret ingredient.

“Secret ingredient?” Bastian said.

“Could be anything,” Arianna replied, looking everywhere but at De Luca. “It goes with me to my grave, though.”

“Of course.”

“Are we getting gelato or not?” Whitby asked, still standing on the countertop. Arianna’s gaze slid to the cat, showing annoyance. She must not like Whitby being up there.

“Get down from there,” Bastian said. Whitby stared directly into his eyes as she sat down, placing her two front paws together like a ballerina.

“You’re not the boss of me—” she began, but then her tail, which had been sweeping the countertop behind her, connected with a green bottle. The bottle toppled with a clink, rolled off the counter and smashed on the floor at Arianna’s feet. Arianna leapt back with a cry, while Whitby sprang to all fours, yowling.

“Arianna, I’m so sorry!” Bastian cried, the overpowering scent of olive oil flooding his nostrils. “She’s a bit of a loose cannon. I honestly fear she has no idea she’s a cat.”

He reached for Whitby, intending to pluck her from the counter, but she hissed and swiped a claw at him, still in “frazzled cat” mode.

Arianna glared at Whitby as she mopped up the mess, saying through gritted teeth, “It’s no problem. The olive oil is easily replaceable; it’s from a local grove. We try to support each other around here.” Her gaze slipped to De Luca as she added, “Or, at least, some of us do.”

“Please, let me pay for it,” Bastian said, opting to ignore her tone. “And I’ll take threegelati—one for me, and one for each of my ungrateful comrades.”

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