She does the math in her head. “Three hours, maybe three and a half. We’ll turn and baste. It’ll be ready when it’s ready.”
I put the pan in. Heat hits my face, and the scent lifts, promising. When I close the door, she’s already at the sink, washing the mortar. I take the board to the counter, wipe it down.
“Beans,” she says next. “Cannellini. We’ll start them with onion, garlic, a little sage. We didn’t soak them overnight, so they’ll take a while. I think we should put them in the oven too, to save usfrom standing over the stove for three hours. Then they meet the juices from the lamb.”
“Bossy.”
“Efficient,” she corrects with a smile while setting the second stove.
I go into the pantry and bring out a Dutch oven.
I set the pot over a flame. “Tell me what you want.”
“Olive oil in the pot. More than you think.” I pour. “Stop.” She tosses in smashed garlic cloves, an onion halved through the root, a sprig of sage. The kitchen fills with the aroma as they melt in the oil just enough. She adds the beans, then covers them with water by an inch. “No salt yet,” she says, and flicks her fingers at me when I reach.
“I’m trying.”
She doesn’t look at me, but she hears it. Her mouth presses at the corner, a line I want to trace. With my tongue.
I set the heavy lid on the pot and transfer it to the oven. The scent of garlic and sage sneaks out from under the lid.
Bianca turns back to the puntarelle on the board. She snaps the pale stems from the head and slices them into fine curls. They fall into a bowl of iced water and tighten into a crisp tangle. “You still have that anchovy we didn’t use?”
“Two tins.”
“Good man.” She glances up. “Sorry. Good—”
“Man works,” I say. “I’ll let you know if I want a promotion.”
We stand close at the island while she makes the dressing: garlic mashed to a paste with anchovy, lemon, vinegar, a ribbon of oil, black pepper. Nothing sweet. It smells like a siren enticing you to come closer.
She slides the bowl of puntarelle to me. “Spin it dry in ten minutes.”
“Yes, Chef.”
She hears the word and cuts me a look. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what.”
“Don’t call me Chef like you’re winding me up.”
“I’m just using your title.”
That earns me a look that says she can see right through me.
It sends a bolt of desire straight to my cock.
We snack on more crostino, a curl of Parmigiano, and drink water because the wine has to wait.
I top off her glass without being asked. We find our rhythm as the beans simmer away, and the lamb sizzles under the crust of its own fat, perfuming the house. She opens the oven, bastes, closes, and turns down the temperature before setting a timer.
“Now we just let it cook and baste occasionally,” she says.
“Copy.” I lean a hip into the island and watch her pull the cores from two heads of garlic. She tucks the cloves into a small dish, floods them with oil, covers them, and sets them aside. The garlic will turn mild and spreadable, a delicious accompaniment to the beans and bread.
“What else?” I ask.
“Chicken liver crostini if I were home,” she says, half to herself. “But I didn’t see any I loved in the case. We’ll do radicchio instead. But we don’t need to start that now. It won’t take long, so we’ll do it just before the lamb comes out. The garlic we’ll start a little before that.”
