“Oh, both,” I say quickly.
“You’re a food writer?” the waiter says suspiciously. “A reviewer?”
“No!” I fire back quickly.Shit. “I meanyes, I am. But not today. The table is fine. It’s wonderful. I’ll take it. We’ll take the table.”
Damn it.
I spot Leo walking toward us, a hand up, and I wave back meekly.
You got this, Olive, I tell myself, breathing slowly out as Leo moves toward me through the busy balcony tables. I try not to stare, but I keep thinking of the zing of electricity I felt last night when we shook hands. Objectively, he is attractive, I reason with myself, as my eyes scan his jaw and the broad curve of his shoulders. Like a nice painting. Or a sculpture. One of those particularly well-cut and very naked marble ones.Of course you’re attracted to him. He’s a good-looking guy with a confident swagger and he loves the business of food as much as I do.
“Nice table,” says Leo, immediately endearing himself to the waiter.
“Prego,” says the waiter, handing us menus, beaming at Leo and then frowning at me. I watch him go and curse myself.Damn it.
“What did you say to him?” Leo asks as he slides into his seat.
“He kind of knows I’m a critic,” I mutter, shamefaced.
“Youtoldhim you’re a critic?” scoffs Leo. “Do you always do that when you go out for lunch?”
“Of course not,” I say quickly, pulling my napkin off the table and laying it in my lap. “It was an accidental slip.”
Leo laughs as though he doesn’t believe me. “Well, you chose a good spot, at any rate. The Crazy Octopus. Should be a good lunch.”
I recalled Dad loving it here, eating under the citrus trees in the warm midday sun. Mussels. Fish. Pasta. I managed to find it online, following my hazy memories and using Google Maps.
You know Sicily, I’d reminded myself over breakfast that morning. Even if it’s been a hot minute since I’ve been here. I crammed all morning like a disorganized teenager before exams,reading up on the history, the eclectic cuisine, thousands of years of evolving culture. Unearthing memories and so much rusty knowledge.
I’m ready.
The waiter returns with menus and offers us two Sicilian sparkling wines. “It’s a beautiful aperitif,” he says, presenting two already filled glasses.
Here we go. We’re going to get the special treatment because I’m a critic. I shoot Leo an eye roll, but he misses it. Unfortunately, the waiter does not. I hate making waitstaff feel on edge. I hate being this person who just judges everything all the damn time.
“I’ll take one,” Leo says, rubbing his hands together with delight.
“Bene,” he replies, smiling sweetly, then turning to me with barely masked contempt.
“I will too,” I say meekly.
When we’re alone, I point at a dish on the menu. “Let’s start here.”
“Alla Norma?”
“Yes. I think we should start with all the obvious dishes, if only to disregard them. We can’t be here and not at least consider alla Norma.”
Leo raises an eyebrow. “Named after Bellini’s most famous opera.”
“The greatest son of Catania.”
He looks pleased, and it buoys me.
“I also think it’s worth trying some basic seafood, even if it’s simply grilled with pepper and lemon. It’s not Sicily without it.”
Leo nods. “Have you got an idea for a key ingredient?”
“A few. We’ve so many to choose from,” I say, my confidence growing.
