“Maybe. But it’s an ever-changing menu, totally seasonal. It’s Italian,but they don’t brick themselves in. Pork belly in sake and soy. Duck with burned asparagus. But also, the best version of pici cacio e pepe I’ve ever had. Italian, but lots of different influences. A lot of Italian cooks think Italian food can’t be improved.”
He grins at me conspiratorially, and I cringe.
“I get that Nicky’s is a family restaurant, but you’re right that it looks the same as it did in 1995, and the world has changed. Your dad just would notmodernize. It was an insult to his very core, the idea that what was a good idea once is now out of date. And Jesus. The same fuckingTrattoria ItalianaCD every night. The same everything. And the people that come? They’re that age, like, where they can only eat one course and don’t really drink. I love the regulars, but Nicky’s needs young London too. Sharing plates and cool Italian cocktails. Not the same old fucking Aperol spritz they sit on for two hours.”
“Hey, I like an Aperol spritz,” I joke, but I’m surprised to hear Leo speak so candidly about the restaurant’s problems. And I’m surprised most of all that I agree with him.
Leo laughs. “Yeah. So that’s my take, anyway.”
“It sounds like a reasonable take,” I say, as the waiter fills my glass again. “And you think Nicky’s could have worked if he’d listened?”
“Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “Not just worked. It had everything it needed to thrive.”
“Huh,” is all I can reply.
“What do you think about this?” Leo says, as I take the last oyster and let it slide down my throat.
“Idolike the way it’s presented,” I say, turning the boat-shaped olive-wood platter. On the side, the initials of the restaurant are burned in.
“Modern Italian,” Leo says, laughing. “See? It can be done without being too—what is that word you use in your reviews?Overengineered.”
I shoot him a look, and he holds my gaze for a moment. And this time, I don’t look away. The intensity of the look between us is like hot breath on my neck, all my hairs standing on end. An electric pulse buzzes through me and down my spine; I fight the urge to shift in my seat. I hold still, and for the first time I think, with absolute clarity, that I am more than just attracted to Leo. I am utterly lustful for him. I’ve been lustful since the first day here in Catania. If I’m honest, it is probably another reason I’ve found it hard to be around him.
Leo’s eyes seem to darken as we hold each other’s gaze.
The pull is so strong, and more alarming still, it’s mutual.
The waiter returns, and with that, the tension breaks. I take a moment to look at the flickering candle and try to calm my galloping heart.
The waiter removes the seafood antipasto, and we both sit back to make room as two wide-rimmed bowls of the most delicately presented pasta are laid in front of us. I get an immediate hit of orange and strong, earthy fish notes.
Leo watches me as I stab my fork into the linguine and roll it round, lifting it with my spoon and sliding it into my mouth. My face must sayheaven, because Leo grins.
“Now, I could write a good story about this,” I say, nodding, unable to remove the childish look of pleasure from my face. “A love story.”
“Want to try mine?” he says.
“It’s the same,” I say. He plunges his fork into his dish and holds it up.
“Nope. I ordered mine with a couple of changes. I have lemon. You have orange. I have parsley, you have none,” he says, and again our eyes connect. I lean forward, aware I’m giving him an eyeful of cleavage as I do.
“Okay then,” I say. His eyes narrow ever so slightly.
He holds out the fork and places it just in front of my lips, so that I have to lean a little closer to put my mouth around it. I feel my cheeks burn as I pull the pasta slowly back off the fork, and Leo looks down at my mouth.
“Delicious,” I say.
“It is,” he agrees, his eyes on me, his voice deep and husky.
Oh boy.What am I doing?I’m selling his livelihood; I can’t get involved with him.
We are interrupted by a man with an armful of red roses, going table to table in the restaurant. “Cinque euro,” he says to Leo.
“No, thank you,” I say.
“No, grazie,” Leo says, also shaking his head. As the man moves away, there’s a beat of silence between us. Leo picks up his glass and takes a sip. I take the last of the bread and scrape it across my plate to pick up some of the sauce. The moment of awkwardness knocks us both a little off beat.
Leo waves the waiter over and asks for more wine, since we’ve already finished the bottle.
