I get it.
She comes out and doesn’t hover. “Too bitter for you?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “You got the puntarelle.”
“I know people,” she says, plain.
“I know you do,” I say.
Her mouth does that not-quite-smile, and she’s gone again.
The room keeps moving. I catch two guys at the bar looking my way, then looking away. They know me. They don’t bother me. I can feel the kitchen working on time by the rhythm of the door. She’s pacing it right. No dragging. No dump. The staff isn’t staring at me through the pass. Good.
Dessert arrives with no build-up. A small square of olive oil cake, tight crumb, not dry. A spoon of macerated strawberries on the side, not sweet syrup, real fruit. A quenelle of mascarpone with a thread of honey and a few crushed pistachios. She puts down a tiny glass of Vin Santo, just enough to taste. There’s also a short espresso set down by Francesca without a word. She knows me already.
I cut into the cake. It holds and doesn’t crumble. The oil is just the right amount. The strawberries taste like strawberries. The mascarpone is cool and loose, not stiff. I take a bite with everything and then a sip of Vin Santo. It could have gone sweet. She didn’t.
She comes out, no jacket now. Just the black tee. Apron off. She stops at the edge of the table.
“Sweet enough?” she asks.
“Barely,” I say. “Correct.”
“Good,” she says.
“Sit,” I say again.
She does, quicker this time. The room is past the rush. They’re not empty, but the noise is down.
“You like feeding people,” I say.
“I do,” she says. No show. “I like it when it shuts them up.”
I laugh, real this time. “You’ll fit in fine at my place.”
She looks at the espresso. “You want sugar?”
“No.”
She watches me take a sip.
“Taste,” I say again and nod at the cake.
“I don’t eat when I cook,” she repeats.
“You’re not cooking anymore,” I say simply.
I pick up the fork, take a small scoop of everything—cake, berry, mascarpone—and hold it out across the table.
She goes still. Not offended. Measuring. Her eyes flick to the room, then to the fork, then back to me. She leans in. Mouth parts. She takes the bite, her lips just grazing the tines. Heat runs a line down my spine like someone flipped a switch.
She chews once, twice, thoughtfully. A crumb catches at the corner of her mouth. I have the stupid urge to wipe it with my thumb. I don’t. She beats me to it, swipes with the pad of her finger, and sets her hand flat on the table again like nothing happened.
“Well?” I ask. My voice sounds the same. It doesn’t feel the same.
“It’s good,” she says. “Could go a hair more on the pistachio. Not much.”
We sit there for a second. I finish the espresso. She sits still. She doesn’t fidget with silverware. She just looks at me, and I know she’s waiting for a verdict, an answer.
