Free One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) by Lucinda Whitney Page A

his elbows and he’d lost the necktie. How was it possible that he looked even better than earlier in the day? His hair was styled messily, like he’d raked his fingers through it too many times, which worked well for him. Isabel clung to the side of the door.
    Simon Ackerley in her home. Too bad she’d given up alcoholic drinks or a glass of white wine would have been great. Liquid courage and all that.
    He smiled at her. “You did know I was coming, right? Cristina Fonseca invited me over.”
    Isabel returned the smile. How could she not? It was the first time she saw something akin to insecurity in his eyes. She knew the feeling all too well. “Yes, of course. Come on in, we’re just getting started.”
    He followed her to the kitchen.
    “You already know Cristina and that’s her boyfriend, Armando.”
    Cristina stood at the counter, separating the sliced onions into rings, and Armando waved from the sofa.
    Simon help a hand up to them. Then he turned to Isabel and handed her a box. “Here, you might want to put this in the freezer for later.”
    Isabel took it from him and put it away. “You didn’t have to, but thank you.” She took over from Cristina and finished arranging the rest of the toppings for the first pizza.
    Cristina washed her hands at the sink. “My boyfriend’s English is not very good, so I’m sorry if we seem to exclude you from our conversations. We’re not being rude on purpose.” She walked to the sofa and sat next to him.
    Simon smiled. “It’s fine, don’t worry about me. I never say no to a home-cooked meal, so I hope you don’t mind me coming.”
    Cristina cocked her head at Isabel and gave her pointed a look. Even without words, Isabel knew what she was trying to convey from across the room. Isabel wanted to roll her eyes. Yes, he was nervous, she could see that herself. And no, he wasn’t that adorable. Puppies were adorable, not grown men with messy red hair.
    Isabel worked on the pizzas. After a moment, Simon took the stool and sat by the counter. “So I’m guessing you got your oven repaired.”
    The timer beeped, and Isabel carefully transferred the pizzas onto the hot surface, side by side but with room to expand. She closed the oven and turned back to the counter. He remembered their conversation at the academy’s kitchen. “Yes, I was beginning to have withdrawals.”
    He leaned his elbows on the granite surface and glanced at the pizzas. “Not pepperoni?”
    “Sorry to disappoint you, but pepperoni is not on the menu tonight.”
    “I’m curious, but definitely not disappointed.” A crooked grin tugged at his lips.
    He had a large mouth with full lips. On anyone else it would have looked out of proportion, but not on his face. It fit well with the straight nose, the green eyes, and the myriad freckles. She looked down at his arms. Strong arms with the russet hair and more freckles.
    Simon cleared his throat and Isabel grabbed a bowl from the counter. He’d caught her staring at him. Again. He was supposed to be the one feeling uncomfortable, not her.
    “What kind of pizzas are you making?” he asked.
    The pizzas. Right.
    Isabel turned the water on the dishes in the sink and cleaned the granite counter surface. “Three different ones. A spicy honey caramelized onion with Portuguese cured ham, fresh cheese and arugula on a traditional crust. The second one is shrimp, olives, and mango on a whole wheat crust, and the last one is a simple version of the classic margherita with fresh mozzarella, basil, and purple heirloom tomatoes.”
    It was his turn to stare back. “You had me at caramelized onions. Wow.”
    Isabel shrugged. “Don’t be impressed yet. A couple of them are experiments and I’m trying out a white garlic sauce instead of a traditional tomato sauce for the base.” She knew better than trying experiments on dinner guests, but she hadn’t had the time to test the recipes first.
    “You’re amazing, you know that? You run a private school by