Breathless In Love
Page 15
“Great food. Good price.” Will unrolled his utensils from the napkin. “I’m a big believer in value.”
“Is that what you do? In your business, I mean. Give people value?”
“I give them what they want. I pay attention to current fads, but I’ve always had an eye for the good stuff. Something exclusive and expensive. The value is in how badly people want something unique. And that’s all in the perception.”
Glad that he didn’t seem to mind talking about his business, at the very least, she asked, “Like what?”
“Some people will pay anything to be able to say something is one of a kind, so that they’ve got bragging rights. They don’t want to walk into a store and buy it or get it on the Internet. It’s designer couture. Like an award-winning Japanese single malt whiskey of which only fifty bottles were produced. Or a Turkish rug that took two years to weave. My customer is happy to pay for that one-of-a-kind perceived value, and then I pass it on to the artisan and make my profit at the same time.” He spread his hands. “Everyone’s happy.”
It couldn’t be standard business practice to share the wealth with the people who did the actual labor, but she already knew from her time in his garage with Jeremy that Will wasn’t typical. Not when most rich men would have tossed Jeremy’s letter in the trash—or treated him like there was something wrong with him.
Still, she didn’t entirely understand. “What kind of people would pay so much?”
“The kind of people who have more money than they can possibly spend.”
He’d compared luxury goods to designer couture, the fifty-thousand-dollar designer dresses celebrities wore to the Oscars. But the exorbitant amounts were beyond her.
Just like he was beyond her.
Harper had a perfectly good sense of self-worth, and yet she wasn’t going to lie to herself and say that everything about Will’s world didn’t make her head spin. She couldn’t imagine living a life like his.
“Do you regularly travel to Japan and Turkey?” She’d never been outside the U.S. She’d had dreams, of course, but after her parents died, it wasn’t a luxury she could afford. Not yet, anyway, though she was saving up. One day she and Jeremy would see all the places she’d read about curled up on the couch at night.
“It’s one of the perks of what I do.” Smile crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.
“And do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.” The crinkles disappeared. His face shut down. The muscle in his jaw jumped again. “Not by blood, anyway.”
Clearly, he was far more comfortable talking about his business than he was about anything personal. And she hated that she’d said something that had clearly prodded old wounds, especially when she knew how difficult it was to have to tell people the hard stuff over and over again.
Fortunately, just then a woman burst through the doorway, chattering in Italian to the wait staff. She swished through the tables, a tray balanced on her hand with Harper’s wine and a frosty mug of beer for Will.
“Mr. Franconi.” She set down both drinks with a flourish.
“Mama Cannelli.” Will rose to hug her.
She was the stereotypical Italian mother from the movies, with a round face, round body, and dark hair sprinkled with strands of silver. Her dress was something out of the 1950s, protected with a black apron.
“This is my friend Harper.”
Mama Cannelli beamed. “Very nice, very pretty,” she said in melodious, Italian-laced English. “I hope you don’t eat like a bird.”
“I very much enjoy eating good food,” Harper said with a smile. “Will recommended the ravioli.”
The woman’s entire face smiled—her forehead, her laugh lines, her mouth, even her dimpled chin. “Oh, he loves that duck.”
“I certainly do. And I brought you a present, Mama.” Will held out the tin.
“You don’t need to bring me presents whenever you dine with us. All you have to do is enjoy our food.” But she took the round tin in her hand, dipping into her apron pocket for a pair of reading glasses. “Mio Dio. I cannot accept. This is far too much.”
He touched her hand. “It’s a gift. I have an entire shipment. One small tin is nothing.”
“It’s a pound.” Her voice rose. “A fortune.”
“Why don’t you make us a special hors d’oeuvre with it? Make some for yourself, too, and then save the rest for your very special customers.”
What was in the tin? Harper still couldn’t read the label.
“Please?” Will said.
“You’re a terrible one.” Mama Cannelli turned to Harper, her eyes sparkling. “You watch out for this one. He’s a charmer. He gets his way with everyone.” She turned back to Will and gave him a kiss on the cheek, one that clearly pleased him to no end. “Grazie, Mr. Franconi. It demands a simple preparation so as not to overwhelm the flavor. I will return shortly with the delicious treat.”
“I’m dying to know,” Harper asked after Mama had left them. “What was that?”
“It’s a surprise for you, too.”
She shot him a mock glare at keeping the mystery spinning out—something he was very good at—as the waiter arrived, introducing himself as Antonio. The Cannellis were friendly with Will, and he was very polite and considerate. No cocky finger-snapping. Maybe she’d seen too much TV, where rich people treated the help like second-class citizens who were not even worth a thank-you.
“Is that what you do? In your business, I mean. Give people value?”
“I give them what they want. I pay attention to current fads, but I’ve always had an eye for the good stuff. Something exclusive and expensive. The value is in how badly people want something unique. And that’s all in the perception.”
Glad that he didn’t seem to mind talking about his business, at the very least, she asked, “Like what?”
“Some people will pay anything to be able to say something is one of a kind, so that they’ve got bragging rights. They don’t want to walk into a store and buy it or get it on the Internet. It’s designer couture. Like an award-winning Japanese single malt whiskey of which only fifty bottles were produced. Or a Turkish rug that took two years to weave. My customer is happy to pay for that one-of-a-kind perceived value, and then I pass it on to the artisan and make my profit at the same time.” He spread his hands. “Everyone’s happy.”
It couldn’t be standard business practice to share the wealth with the people who did the actual labor, but she already knew from her time in his garage with Jeremy that Will wasn’t typical. Not when most rich men would have tossed Jeremy’s letter in the trash—or treated him like there was something wrong with him.
Still, she didn’t entirely understand. “What kind of people would pay so much?”
“The kind of people who have more money than they can possibly spend.”
He’d compared luxury goods to designer couture, the fifty-thousand-dollar designer dresses celebrities wore to the Oscars. But the exorbitant amounts were beyond her.
Just like he was beyond her.
Harper had a perfectly good sense of self-worth, and yet she wasn’t going to lie to herself and say that everything about Will’s world didn’t make her head spin. She couldn’t imagine living a life like his.
“Do you regularly travel to Japan and Turkey?” She’d never been outside the U.S. She’d had dreams, of course, but after her parents died, it wasn’t a luxury she could afford. Not yet, anyway, though she was saving up. One day she and Jeremy would see all the places she’d read about curled up on the couch at night.
“It’s one of the perks of what I do.” Smile crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.
“And do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.” The crinkles disappeared. His face shut down. The muscle in his jaw jumped again. “Not by blood, anyway.”
Clearly, he was far more comfortable talking about his business than he was about anything personal. And she hated that she’d said something that had clearly prodded old wounds, especially when she knew how difficult it was to have to tell people the hard stuff over and over again.
Fortunately, just then a woman burst through the doorway, chattering in Italian to the wait staff. She swished through the tables, a tray balanced on her hand with Harper’s wine and a frosty mug of beer for Will.
“Mr. Franconi.” She set down both drinks with a flourish.
“Mama Cannelli.” Will rose to hug her.
She was the stereotypical Italian mother from the movies, with a round face, round body, and dark hair sprinkled with strands of silver. Her dress was something out of the 1950s, protected with a black apron.
“This is my friend Harper.”
Mama Cannelli beamed. “Very nice, very pretty,” she said in melodious, Italian-laced English. “I hope you don’t eat like a bird.”
“I very much enjoy eating good food,” Harper said with a smile. “Will recommended the ravioli.”
The woman’s entire face smiled—her forehead, her laugh lines, her mouth, even her dimpled chin. “Oh, he loves that duck.”
“I certainly do. And I brought you a present, Mama.” Will held out the tin.
“You don’t need to bring me presents whenever you dine with us. All you have to do is enjoy our food.” But she took the round tin in her hand, dipping into her apron pocket for a pair of reading glasses. “Mio Dio. I cannot accept. This is far too much.”
He touched her hand. “It’s a gift. I have an entire shipment. One small tin is nothing.”
“It’s a pound.” Her voice rose. “A fortune.”
“Why don’t you make us a special hors d’oeuvre with it? Make some for yourself, too, and then save the rest for your very special customers.”
What was in the tin? Harper still couldn’t read the label.
“Please?” Will said.
“You’re a terrible one.” Mama Cannelli turned to Harper, her eyes sparkling. “You watch out for this one. He’s a charmer. He gets his way with everyone.” She turned back to Will and gave him a kiss on the cheek, one that clearly pleased him to no end. “Grazie, Mr. Franconi. It demands a simple preparation so as not to overwhelm the flavor. I will return shortly with the delicious treat.”
“I’m dying to know,” Harper asked after Mama had left them. “What was that?”
“It’s a surprise for you, too.”
She shot him a mock glare at keeping the mystery spinning out—something he was very good at—as the waiter arrived, introducing himself as Antonio. The Cannellis were friendly with Will, and he was very polite and considerate. No cocky finger-snapping. Maybe she’d seen too much TV, where rich people treated the help like second-class citizens who were not even worth a thank-you.
