Leo turns his head and shakes it slowly. “Olive. Please. Of course I’ve read your reviews. Anyone who owns so much as an ice-cream stand has. You’re Stone Cold Olive Stone.”
Stone Cold Olive Stone?
“No one... no one calls me that, do they?”
“It’s one name,” he says, grinning, before he presses on and I’m left with my jaw on the floor, mortified. “Anyway, stories like the truffle pig? It’s not just reviewing the region and critiquing it. It’s telling astory.”
“Don’t worry about my part of the job,” I say.Stone cold? All I feel is hot under the collar, simultaneously irritated with Leo and annoyed that my irritation does nothing to stop me from eyeing his gorgeous lips against the rim of his beer. Leo looks pensive as he puts his glass down, and I follow his tongue as it licks the foam from his lips.
I clear my throat.Eyes on the prize. “You worry about getting the recipes right, and whether they can be reproduced easily. I’ll worry about the writing.”
Leo’s brows furrow deeply. “Is that how you want to do it?”
“I think so,” I say, not daring to make eye contact for more than a cursory glance. “Isn’t that the best use of our skills?”
“I think we should work together. Two palates, one mission,” he says firmly.
“Together?” I blurt out.
Leo looks at his beer and, after a moment’s awkward silence, says, “I’m sorry the idea of spending time together is so awful for you.”
“It’s not aboutyou,” I say quickly, my heart picking up. “I’m trying to be efficient.”
“Get it over with?”
“No, beefficient,” I say again.
“You don’t want to be here,” he says in a tone that suggestshe knew it.
“No. I do,” I say steadily. “I’m here to do a good job.”
Leo nods, though he’s clearly unconvinced.
Part of me wants to blurt it all out, explain everything about my relationship with my father. But it’s so complicated, and I don’t know Leo, or what he thinksheknows about me. The idea of thrashing that out right now feels an impossible, emotionally fraught task.
“We should go out together. Experience the food together,” he presses. “If it doesn’t work, we can do it your way.”
“Fine,” I say quietly. I wish I’d been ready to read the manuscript in London. That I didn’t feel so unprepared for whatever shots Leo is going to sling at me.
“Great,” he says, sighing, before turning to me, putting his elbow on the bar counter. He’s closer now, and I get a hit of that woody cologne. I don’t like the flutter I feel in his presence, not one bit.
“One more thing, though?” he says.
“Fire away.”
“The publisher said our section will be noted as finished by us posthumously, right?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“So, while wecouldjust continue as is, we could also try to bring a little of ourselves in, you know? Differentiate it. Elevate it. Modernize the last few sections.”
“Elevate it?”I snap my head toward him.
“Yes, elevate it,” he continues, and then he flicks through the little leather notebook he put on the table. I catch pages of sketches and tiny notes before he settles on a page:Topinambour Foam. I recoil, looking at the sketch of torn toasted bread, thinly sliced Jerusalem artichoke, and some kind of pooled oil.
“What is that?” It isn’t a question, really.
“Foam,” says Leo.
