I look at the pan skeptically. “I’m going to try tossing another day. I’m too hungry to risk it.”
He laughs, and it makes my heart clench.
What is wrong with me? Am I having a conversation with Luca Conti?
No, I’mcooking withLuca Conti. Somehow, that’s worse.
But I grab the spoon and start stirring it all together.
And what do you know? The noodles shine instead of clump. Did I really just make cacio e pepe?
My shoulders drop an inch. “It’s holding.”
“Good,” he says. “Finish with a dust of cheese and cracked pepper if you want more bite. Some truffle, if you have it. Then taste.”
“Sorry, fresh out of truffle,” I say dryly.
I grab a fork and try it. A little salty, peppery. No pebbles, no grease. “It’s… good,” I say, in a bit of awe.
“That’s because you stopped forcing it,” he says. “You persuade sauce. You don’t beat it.”
“Noted.” I take another forkful and eat it, a small moan escaping before I realize it.
I clear my throat as my senses come back to me.
What the fuck am I doing?
Silence follows.
“You knew what would happen when you handed me that cup,” I say because it’s been on the tip of my tongue all week.
He sighs. “I suspected it.”
“You wanted to see how fast they’d close in?”
“Hmm.” He doesn’t answer right away, and I wonder what’s going on in that head of his. “I suspected, but that’s not why I did it.”
“So, why did you?”
“Because it was your favorite.”
My hand tightens on the fork. “Don’t do it again.”
“Understood.”
Silence. The noises of the city outside my window seem so far away. Inside my kitchen, it’s private, intimate.
Then: “Next time. Pasta.”
I huff. “There won’t be a next time.”
“Of course not,” he says simply.
I should hang up. I don’t.
“Enjoy your meal,” he says quietly. “Buona notte, Panini.”
The line clicks dead.
