She grinned. ‘Me too.’

Penny pulled a baking sheet lined with kale from the oven and put it on the counter, arranging it on a plate with radicchio leaves and beetroot before sprinkling croutons over the top and spooning smoked ricotta on the side. She lost herself in the music of her art, drizzling over olive oil and saba, finishing the plate with flaked salt.

‘Service!’ she called out, and Estelle, a petite blonde with half her head shaved, appeared to whisk it away.

Penny looked around the kitchen. It had been a busier service than normal, and her section was a mess.

‘Bobby?’ she said in the direction of the pot-wash. ‘I’m just running upstairs for a sec. Do what you can over there and then I’ll sweep and mop. I know you need to leave by half past.’

‘Cheers, boss,’ said the kitchen-hand from behind a mound of sudsy water. ‘I promise I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.’

‘I know,’ Penny said. ‘It’s cool. Thank you.’

Penny headed up the six or so stairs from the lower ground level kitchen at the back to the main part of the café out front. Stuart saw her as she turned the corner and from behind the counter tipped his head in the direction of the window where, at a table meant for four, sat Francesco on his own. She walked over, smiling.

‘Can I buy you a coffee?’

‘Hello, you,’ Penny replied. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I told you I needed to eat here,’ he said, as way of explanation. ‘And now I have. Penny, you’re brilliant. I didn’t want you to know it was me you were feeding. I wanted to be treated like any other regular guy.’

‘Yes, I would have been rather distracted to know I was cooking for the world’s best foot masseuse.’

‘You understand my logic, then,’ retorted Francesco. He hadn’t shaved that day and his five o’clock shadow made him look rugged and outdoorsy. He dabbed at his lips with his napkin delicately, the gesture at odds with his appearance. It was – oh god, Penny cringed, I need to come up with another bloody word for him – disarmingly sexy.

‘You left without saying goodbye last night,’ Penny said. She pulled up the chair opposite. Francesco looked like a framed picture with the street in early bloom behind him, the light hazy as evening threatened to arrive soon, his jacket in a pile beside him.

‘Like I said in my text, I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘I’m a terrible host,’ Penny said. ‘Falling asleep on you like that.’

‘Nah,’ Francesco replied. ‘I’m glad you felt comfortable enough to do so.’

They stared at each other, beaming.

‘It’s good here,’ Francesco said. ‘It’s really, really good. The food, the vibe, the service. You deserve all the hype.’