I jump on and pull on my helmet. Leo reaches back and holds the handles on the seat behind him, but his hard chest brushes against my back, his thighs fitted snuggly behind mine, and I’m too aware of the delicious heat of him.
“Head up the hill and follow the signs for Florence,” he says.
“We’re going to Florence?”
“No. I’ll nudge you when we’re turning off.”
The scooter kicks forward and we’re away, whizzing up the country roads.
After about fifteen minutes, Leo points to a turnoff and we drive down a smaller road up a hill and to a walled mountain frazione, a small medieval village with a market in the center.
Leo guides me to an area behind a fountain to park, and we dismount, pink-cheeked and windswept.
“So good to be here again,” says Leo, shoving our helmets into the little boot at the back.
“Again?”
“Yes, I used to come here in the summer when my mum was sick. Do you remember I said that I got really into cooking shows?” he says, grinning. “I also got into something else.”
“What?” I say, following him into a bakery. A gorgeous, tiny store with a round stone doorway and just a few dozen loaves of bread on shelves behind the counter. He pays for a small ciabatta loaf and a couple of pesche di prato.
“What did you get into?” I say. “Shopping?”
“Come,” he says.
I follow him down a small, paved alleyway, taking in the pretty village with its terra-cotta-colored roofs,yellow and orange weathered plaster, each balcony spilling with potted flowers and herbs. A couple of women hang washing from a line above us, while groceries are off-loaded from a three-wheeled van into a tiny eatery ahead.
“Come with me,” he says, nodding toward a little alley off the edge of the town’s piazza. We wander down the narrow lane and come to a tiny yellow building withForelliin black script scrawled across the top.
Leo pushes open the door and guides me in.
“One of the last artisanal pasta factories in Tuscany. All handmade. Some dried, some, like these tortellini, packaged fresh.”
The factory is more like a large industrial kitchen, with huge stainless-steel work surfaces, enormous dough mixers, and all sorts of contraptions for creating different shapes.
Near the front a woman looks up from a bench dusted in flour as she hand rolls out a large flat layer of fresh pasta. It’s brighter yellow than I’ve seen before.
“Semolina, durum wheat, and egg yolk,” Leo explains.
I watch as she spoons tiny rounds of spinach and ricotta in a line along the square, and then expertly lays a second sheet of pasta on top. After squeezing out the air with her thumb and forefinger, she runs a cutter down the length of it.
“She makes it look so easy.”
“I like to see kitchen prep, but I’m just a chef,” he says, laughing.
“I like it too, actually,” I say. “But I don’t get it. Are we eating here?”
“No,” he says.
Leo grins and nods to the lady behind the counter as she comes over to serve him,and I loiter near the front, marveling at the shelves, fully stocked with nests of fettuccini, pappardelle, testaroli, and pici. I love the traditional design of the packages, a yellow paper bag rolled shut at the top and fixed with staples. The logo is simple: the year 1925, and the ingredients list.
I turn back to Leo, who is taking something warm in a bag and has borrowed a long roll of foil to wrap it up.
“What’s in the bag?”
“So many questions, Olive,” he says, laughing as he holds open the door for me.
We head back to the bike, and he gently slides the food into the boot, first removing the helmets. Then he jumps on the front of the bike, checking his watch.
