I wipe the counter, even though it’s spotless, and get to work.
By 9:00, I have a plate ready under a warmer. Butter melts in a low pan. Eggs go in, and I slowly stir. I can hear footsteps outside the kitchen, and my heart jumps into my throat.
Then his voice, not loud. “Rolando.”
“Kitchen, sir,” Rolando answers.
Giovanni steps into the doorway. Dark suit, no tie, shirt open at the throat. He takes in the room the way he always does.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” I keep the eggs moving, small curds, glossy. “You want salmon or a frittata?”
“Not today.” He steps to the sink, washes his hands, dries them, and stays out of the way. “Smells good.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Pancetta hits its window. I pull it to a rack. Tomatoes come out—skins just split, edges puckered. Bread drops into the toaster; I’m not committing it to a pan today. Eggs off heat with a knob of butter and the chives.
I plate fast and neat. Eggs center-left, chives bright. Tomatoes right, a squeeze of lemon while they’re still hot. Pancetta next to the toast so the fat can kiss the crust. Ricotta in a small bowl with oil shimmering on top. Fruit plate, yogurt with honey and walnuts set behind. Napkin, fork, spoon for yogurt, coffee cup turned up.
“Dining table or here?” I ask.
He looks at the island, then at the windows. “Table.” He reaches for the fruit and yogurt to carry. I pick up the plates.
We walk out together. The main room is bright but quiet. He sets down his pieces; I set the plates.
“Coffee, espresso?” I ask.
“Can you make a long black?”
“Yes.”
I turn back to the La Marzocco. Double shot first, hot water after. I bring it to the table, set it on a coaster, and slide the small sugar bowl within reach, even though he probably won’t touch it.
He tastes the eggs first. A small nod. Then the tomato, a soft noise of approval that slides into my belly. He tears a piece of toast, drags it through the ricotta and oil.
“Perfect,” he says.
I step back into the kitchen while he eats and begin tidying up. I was told I wouldn’t have to clean, but that doesn’t mean I have to leave it a mess. Afterward, I sit at the counter and pull the notebook to me, already planning the remaining meals for the day.
I’m deep in planning mode when his voice makes me jump and nearly unbalance. “Oh my—”
His hands come around my waist to steady me.
“Are you incapable of making noise?” I say, heart still pounding a mile a minute.
He doesn’t let go right away. “Didn’t mean to,” he says near my ear, voice low. Heat pools where his fingers brace my hips. He steps back a breath later, palms sliding off like he’s reminding himself how to behave. “You all right?”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my pulse disagrees. I flip the notebook open again because paper is safer than looking at him. “Lunch will be simple. Cold roast chicken salad with tarragon, celery, lemon; farro with herbs; shaved fennel; a little fruit.”
“I have a meeting at 1:00,” he says. “Light is good. All set for dinner?”
I flip the page again. “Sea bass. Salsa verde. Braised fennel. Maybe a small saffron risotto to start, not heavy. Greens with lemon. I believe everything is here.”
He nods once, approving.
“Have you eaten?”
