“And that cake was... everything in Sicilian life together in one bite...” I stop for a moment, looking around for the words to describe it. “It was perfect.”
Leo smiles. “Perfect?”
“You know,” I say, shrugging. “As perfect as it gets.”
Leo laughs. “Can’t let the critic in you go, can you?”
“Shut up,” I say, grinning.
Leo smiles back at me, and I am not prepared for the electric pulse that fizzes through my body when it reaches his eyes and he shakes his head slowly.
“What?” I say, folding my arms.
“It’s nice to see you so into it,” he says, grinning. “It’s like you’ve come alive.”
“It’s easy to talk to you about food,” I say, without adding that my worries about the restaurant, about putting him out of a job and disappointing my father—all of it falls away when we’re working.
“I have a suggestion for the third dish,” Leo says suddenly. “Since we’re in Catania, wehaveto do seafood. One salad, one cake, one seafood dish.”
“I agree. Something with sardines, please?”
“Well,” he says, looking extremely satisfied. “I’ve made us a reservation for a place that does the best pasta con le sarde in Catania.”
LEO LEADS MEback toward the fish market and turns down a street filled with colorful open umbrellas outside a row of restaurants. The tables spill so far out onto the street that there is just a small walking lane between them. He points to a place with fairy lights across the salmon-pink facade and just a few full and lively tables outside.
“Gosh this place is cute,” I say, getting jabbed in the side by a passing group. The interior is illuminated by soft lighting and candles. In the moody low light I can just make out mostly naked frescoes covering the walls. It’s romantic. It’sdangerouslyromantic.
It’s research, Olive.
We’re given a seat at a small round table with a crisp white tablecloth in a dark corner of the already dark restaurant. It’s quiet in here, given the carnival atmosphere of the street outside. I feel like I’ve stepped into a Caravaggio, dark and red with yellow light. The single candle gently illuminates Leo’s face, catching the flecks of lightness in his eyes.
Leo swiftly takes care of the food ordering.
“Seafood antipasto? Then the pasta con le sarde? Oh, and let’s try this roe and spaghetti with orange.” Leo looks up and smiles at me. “Since orange is our theme.”
“All sounds good to me,” I say.
The waiter brings a bottle of Feu D’o Bianco, a crisp white, and a volcanic charcoal plate bearing crusty ciabatta and olive oil with some kind of herby vinegar pooling through it.I look up at Leo.
“Do you like the presentation?” Leo asks.
“Yes, but as you know, with me it’s about the taste,” I reply wryly. The bread delivers a heavenly crunch as I bite into it, and the soft, chewy crumb holds the herbed oil beautifully.
“It’s good,” I murmur. “All this bread and oil. I might need to start running. You know what I really like? A good hike.”
“I think Tuscany is going to be the place for that,” he says, reminding me that I’m supposed to be staying with his aunt in a few days. “You know, you should do the Etna crater.”
“Yes indeed. There is something so thrilling about the idea of standing on the edge of an active volcano,” I say sarcastically.
“The view is great.” He smiles. “We should go sometime.”
The way my pulse jumps at Leo’s invitation is more terrifying than the active volcano.
“Your dad liked that walk,” he continues.
I ignore the mention of Dad and take a sip of my wine, enjoying the feeling of relaxation it gives me as the alcohol hits my veins.
Leo studies my face. “You hate it when I mention him.”
