Snowbound Christmas with the Italian Doc
Author
Annie O'Neil
Reads
15.5K
Chapters
16
CHAPTER ONE
‘HERE, GRANDAD. Take this cushion.’
‘I’m perfect as I am, Natalia, why don’t—?’
‘Do you want two? Scoot forward. I’m just going to put this behind your back.’
‘Natalia! Basta! Stop fussing, child. Per favore.’
‘I’m not a child!’ Natalie protested. She was practically forty. T minus seven days, in fact. And about sixteen hours. And something like twenty-seven minutes and a fistful of seconds.
Not that she was freaking out about turning the big four-oh.
She was completely freaking out.
‘I’ve got to make sure you’re comfy before I head off to work.’
‘Natalie! I didn’t tell you about the locum post so that you could spend your free time fussing over me. I was hoping you might relax. Enjoy yourself.’
She looked at her white-haired grandad and smiled. She loved him, but maybe a life’s worth of long-distance phone calls meant he didn’t get her as much as she’d thought.
‘Grandad,’ she said, ‘I am happiest when I’m working.’
‘Nico.’ Nis friend Alberto came over to join them. ‘Which of these two wines do you think would go best with the meal tonight?’
Natalie smiled, grateful to have him distracted.
So what if work was her happy place? When she was working, the rest of the world and all her personal problems just faded away. Then again, maybe Nonno Nico had a point.
She’d come here to think. To regroup. And up here, high in the Italian Alps, was the most picture-perfect place to have a life epiphany.
There was snow. A beautiful village. A gorgeous frozen lake complete with people who actually knew how to skate. A ski resort, beautiful bakeries and trattorias and enotecas galore! All decorated to the hilt. The Italians definitely loved Christmas. She loved Christmas. If only her birthday wasn’t the same day.
Every. Single. Year.
But this year, instead of spending it with her family back in Britain, as she normally did, she was pretending her birthday didn’t exist and, apart from her gorgeous Italian nonno, no one here was any the wiser. He was under strict orders not to mention it to his two octogenarian pals. Very strict.
People were here to celebrate! They didn’t care about her mid-life crisis, which was far too early to be taken seriously. As far as everyone was concerned, Natalie Weston was nothing more than a locum doctor filling in for another doctor who had all the trimmings of the life she’d thought she’d have by now. Husband. Children. A steady job in a picture-perfect Alpine village with two weeks off at Christmas to sunbathe and swim on a tropical island, where the Santa wore board shorts and everyone drank Mai Tais instead of hot chocolate.
Her brain stopped its whirling for a second.
Did she really want that?
Her heart crumpled in on itself.
She simply didn’t know any more. And that was the biggest of all her problems. Which was why, when her grandad had rung and told her about the two-week stint in Bellaria, she’d pounced. She needed some time away from England to figure out what it was she really wanted from life. Because that was what women who were thirty-nine and three hundred and fifty-eight days old did before they hit a milestone, right? Stuffed their head in the sand.
She glanced out of the window. Snow. Snow would have to work.
‘You’re not working until tomorrow, Natalia.’ Nonno Nico neatly picked up the conversation where they’d left off. ‘Come, sit.’ He patted the comfy seat beside him. ‘Be still for a few moments. Gaze at the tree with me.’
Still? That was too close to meditation and...bleurgh... She shuddered. Too much life passed you by when you were still.
‘Nonno!’ She gave him a pat on the shoulder. ‘I’ll sit when I’m ready. Anyway. Let me spoil you like you used to spoil me.’
‘You’re my granddaughter. I get to spoil you as much as I like.’ He pointed to the chair again. ‘Indulge an old man. Sit. I want to make the most of this time we have together. Not watch you run round like a nursemaid after me and my two very old friends.’
Natalie laughed as her grandfather’s silver-haired friends raised impassioned protests at being called old. The three men were all in their eighties, and had been friends since they’d all met at medical school some sixty years before. They were also the youngest old people she knew.
Which did suggest that maybe she shouldn’t be quite as panicked about turning forty as she was. Apart from the whole biological clock ticking thing.
She’d never worried about it before...but she’d never felt quite this single before. Quite this alone.
She half listened to her grandad and his pals banter about which aperitif to enjoy—a martini or an Aperol spritz—and, as usual, didn’t feel entirely as if she had the right to join in.
A feeling she was all too used to in her so-called real life.
She knew it was a symptom of her ADHD. Feeling apart from things. Separate. But it was also her reality. She preferred locum posts to permanent ones for exactly this reason. Her friends were mostly paired up. Had kids. And her sister. Even her dad had found someone after her mum had died, and now he had an entirely new family to celebrate the festive period with. She was always welcome to join them, of course, but...
Up until now, she hadn’t felt quite so aware of how single-track her life had been. She had her work and then, in the leftover snippets of time, she jammed in some life.
She’d had boyfriends, of course. Good ones! On paper, anyway. But somehow, over the years, each relationship had seemed to get shorter and shorter, and she wasn’t entirely sure what or who was to blame. Four years, three years, two... And now? The last relationship she’d had had lasted six weeks. The same length of time as her locum posting. Was life squeezing her out of the relationship game...or was she unconsciously steering her ship in that direction?
She knew she wasn’t wired to approach life in the so-called ‘normal’ way. But she’d also realised a long time ago that ‘normal’ was a bit of a myth. Myth or no, she still had ADHD, and a low-grade anxiety humming underneath what most people called her ‘natural sparkle’. If only they knew how exhausting being sparkly was sometimes.
How she wished she could do what everyone else in this beautiful place could do!
The truth was, she didn’t need the work. She had plenty of money. If she’d wanted to, she could’ve come here on holiday, as her grandfather and his friends had opted to do. Brought nothing but jimjams. Kicked off her boots, curled up in the unoccupied fireside chair with a blanket and stared out at the insane view of the Alps for the next two weeks, trying to figure out the answers to the universe’s most complicated questions.
Everything about the mountainside chalet sang of quality, elegance and, most of all, comfort. There were baskets of soft blankets and a sprawl of sheepskin rugs alongside the fireplaces in every room. Huge sleigh beds dominated each bedroom. There were inviting piles of towels next to massive baths and beautifully tiled showers in every bathroom. The kitchen looked like something out of a design museum, and already had aromas wafting from it reminiscent of some of her favourite restaurants in her grandfather’s native Milan. And, of course, if the meals the chalet girls were magicking up weren’t enough, there were gift baskets for each guest with biscuits and fruit.
The same was true of her smaller one-bedroom flat upstairs, with the addition of vaulted ceilings. She’d bet the flat across the corridor from hers was even more spectacular, as its position meant it would command a view of the entire valley below them. She wasn’t sure if it had been let out to holidaymakers, but so far, it had been quiet.
Outside, the wood and stone building had large wraparound balconies on the upper floors, and an enormous porch complete with wooden swing on the raised ground floor. The shutters were painted a bright, cheerful red. Between the snow on the peaked roof and the scalloped wooden edging, if it had been made out of gingerbread Natalie would’ve broken off a huge chunk and gobbled it down.
But it was real, and it would be her home for her very first Christmas away from England. Countless miles away from her newly pregnant sister with her over-the-moon husband. Her nieces and nephews. Her dad. His new wife. His adult stepchildren. Their little ones.
Her exhausted heart strained at the seams. Was spending Christmas away from them really going to make figuring out her life’s purpose any easier?
She shook the thoughts away. She was with her grandad. And she was working. With one of his former students, even. And maybe...possibly...indulging in a teensy-tiny bit of ugly crying that absolutely no one had to know about.
Perfection!
‘Antipasti!’
The chalet girls carried in two beautiful cutting boards laden with treats. Enough for an entire meal.
Natalie laughed as her grandad and his pals pounced on the food. ‘You three do know they’re preparing a four-course supper as well?’
They all looked at her, confused. Of course they knew. They were Italian. And this—mealtime—was the highlight of the day.
‘Natalie?’ Nico gestured to the chair at his side again.
‘Grazie, Nonno.’ She gave his shoulder a soft squeeze. ‘I will. I promise. I just need to—’ She pointed towards the front door of the chalet.
He cut her off with a tut. ‘We’ll get your bag later. You already hauled all of ours in. Per favore. Let me spoil my precious granddaughter.’
She opened her mouth, about to tell him off for not acting his age, and then remembered how much he had lost in life. His daughter—her mum. His wife. His son. And still he met every day with the passion of a man who had nothing but gratitude for the life he lived. A lesson she knew she needed to learn.
She pressed her hands over her heart. ‘Honestly, Nonno. I can get it. You stay in here. It’s freezing out. And snowing.’
‘We’re fighting fit!’ her grandad’s friend Alberto insisted with a sound thump on his chest. ‘We’ll get it later. Come. Make some old men happy.’
Tito, the third octogenarian of the group, patted the empty spot on the comfy-looking sofa he’d settled onto. ‘We want to enjoy your company! Sit down. Mangiare!’
‘I’m fine,’ Natalie lied over the growl of her tummy. ‘Honestly,’ she insisted as the chalet staff began laying out platters of drool worthy antipasti alongside the cutting boards charged with steaming crusty bread. ‘I’m just going to grab one more bag from the car and then I’ll eat something.’
Her stomach growled loudly enough for everyone to hear. Embarrassing.
The chorus of ‘Mange! Mange!’ faded as the three white-haired men all leant forward and began to inspect the impressive array of offerings.
Quartered figs peeked out between beautifully presented cured meats. Chunks of parmigiana lay around a slick of balsamic vinegar, just begging to be tasted. Toasted bruschetta had little pyramids of glistening red tomato on top.
The car was only a short walk away, but it was quite cold, and it had been a long time since breakfast...
‘Natalia.’ Her grandfather often pronounced her name the Italian way. ‘Per favore. You’ll waste away if you don’t have anything.’ He gave her a wink. ‘Haven’t you heard about calories in high altitude? They disappear into the ether.’
She laughed. ‘I’m a doctor. I know how calories work, Nonno.’
‘Si. But you’re an emergency doctor, and this isn’t an emergency. Besides, with all that knowledge up there in your head, you’ll know that hauling in all that luggage of yours means you’ll need at least one bruschetta to keep you warm. Maybe two.’
She laughed again and scanned the array of goodies. They did look delicious. And it wasn’t as if she was watching her weight.
To put an end to his entreaties, she selected a bruschetta piled high with wild mushrooms, tucked a serviette under it, made a big mmm...delicious face, then headed for the door, throwing a wave over her shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in a mo!’
‘Cara, wait!’ Nico called. ‘They’ve got your favourite!’
He started calling out the names of ingredients that tempted her to turn around and dive in. Parmigiana. Black truffles. Fennel-infused salami.
She pulled open the door, stopping long enough to say, ‘I promise when I’m back I’ll scoff the lot.’
To a chorus of ‘Bambina! Stay!’ and ‘The luggage can wait!’ Natalie closed the door to the ground-floor chalet behind her. She leant back against the thick wooden door, inhaled the scent of the buttery, herbed mushrooms, then took a bite. She closed her eyes as the flavours cascaded through her.
‘Oh, Dio...’ she sighed, taking another huge mouthful.
Heavenly.
‘That good, eh?’
Natalie started. She’d been so engrossed in enjoying her bruschetta she hadn’t noticed anyone entering the large glass and wooden-beamed foyer.
When she opened her eyes and saw who belonged to that chocolate fountain of a voice, she was instantly consumed by an incredibly awkward choking fit. Apparently that was what happened when your mouth was full and the visual answer to all of your man dreams walked into your chalet.
As she choked, her brain managed to absorb flash frames of the new arrival. The sexy professor look was her go-to fantasy and this guy was fulfilling it to a tee.
Tallish. Six foot something. Steamed-up wire-rimmed glasses shoved amongst soft waves of mahogany dark hair. Pitch-black lashes framing a pair of mesmerising eyes. Dark green, maybe? It was hard to tell through the blur of choking tears filling her eyes. Not so many that she couldn’t make out the near mandatory jawline and the salt-and-pepper stubble most Italian men sported by this point in the day.
Her eyes settled on his full-lipped smile that was both kind and uncensored.
What a lovely first impression.
Too bad she was still choking on her mushrooms and had tears—and probably mascara—running down her face as she struggled to regroup.
A couple of long-legged steps and her dream man was beside her, one of his lovely hands giving her back a circular rub until she settled. As if she was a toddler.
Wonderful.
This was precisely the sort of impression she hated making. Among her most recent ex’s unnecessarily lengthy list of reasons he’d cited in advance of their ‘mutually agreeing to let things come to an end’ was her—and she was quoting again here—‘complete inability’ to look after herself.
Uh... Ex-queeze me? She didn’t need to be looked after. She’d managed to get to adulthood, become a sought-after A&E doctor and a frequently requested lecturer at the Royal Medical College all on her own, thank you very much. And she ate her five a day.
Just because she wasn’t as graceful as a runway model and couldn’t cook to cordon bleu standards, it didn’t mean she needed micromanaging. Anyway, Henry was in the past. And, for the record, she’d been the one to dump him. As for the present? She wasn’t in the market for a holiday romance. Or any kind of romance. So, actually, now that she thought about it, behaving as if she was completely undatable was the perfect first impression.
‘Buona sera, signor...’ said the sexy professor man, once she’d stopped choking.
She caught him glancing down at her hand, checking for a ring.
‘Signorina,’ she said solidly, putting some space between them. ‘Natalie Weston—Dr Natalie Weston. I mean Dottore Natalie Weston. Or signorina. Or Natalia. I’m easy!’
What? No! She wasn’t easy. She was English! Prim and proper. The Italian half of her was...well, it was dead. Dormant?
Too late to be stopped, an over-extensive explanation of who she was and why she was there began tumbling out of her mouth in a mix of rusty Italian and English.
He looked confused. Which was fair enough. There was a half-English half-Italian woman babbling away at him.
She tried to fine-tune her stream of way too much information.
‘I’m here with my nonno and his friends. Upstairs. I mean, they’re here and I’m upstairs. In the single person’s flat. Well, it could be for couples. The bed’s certainly big enough. Have you seen that thing? It’s huge! Big enough for a family of four. Not this week, obviously, because it’s just little old me here, but—’
Please stop talking, Natalie, she begged herself.
And then promptly carried on, as his sexy, nerdy, remarkably kissable-looking lips twitched into an even wider smile.
‘I guess you’re in the flat opposite? The one upstairs from the one where I’m staying? Ha! I mean, they wouldn’t have double-booked us. I bet the view is amazing from yours—if it is yours. I mean, the view from mine is amazing, but yours—if it’s yours—bellisima! Like a postcard. Am I right?’
Why couldn’t she stop talking? She should stop talking.
Pretty much every single one of her ex-boyfriends had made it very clear that her nervous talking had started out as an amusing feature, but that in the end it had annoyed them. This guy didn’t seem annoyed. He was just standing there, all relaxed and gorgeous and smiling. So onwards she went.
‘That’s why you’re here, right? To go upstairs? Don’t let me hold you up any more than I have. Unless—Are you...? Do you own this? The chalet girls said the owner was a local. Or are you the guide my nonno hired? For the cross-country skiing? Bruschetta?’
She held up the remains of her piece of toast and mushroom and when he politely declined did what came most naturally. She talked some more.
‘Obviously not this bruschetta...’
Ha-ha-ha. Seriously. If she could be struck down by a stray lightning bolt right now it would be most excellent timing.
‘There are some that don’t have any bite marks in them inside. Loads. Please! Go on in!’ She flung open the door and pointed at the men happily pouring wine and chatting and devouring the delicious antipasti.
To her surprise, he smiled at her, pressed a hand to his chest in thanks and said, ‘It would be my pleasure.’
