I raise an eyebrow as I sit up. “Your bed? You inviting me to share your bed?”
Her eyes sparkle as she lifts her gaze to meet mine. “Ma va, Vincenzo! Not a chance. But one night would not have killed me to sleep on the couch.”
Vincenzo. Only Lucia calls me that. And my parents, though it’s past tense for them.
“Since when do three-star Michelin chefs live in shitty one-bedroom apartments with couches that try to kill you?”
“Wow, don’t hold back,” she laughs. “Being famous doesn’t make you rich.”
“Are you famous?”
She shrugs. “In the culinary world, I guess, a little bit. I studied with Massimo Bottura. I judge cooking competitions that are relatively prestigious. I used to travel and mentor more frequently, but the past few years, I’ve been focused on my restaurant.”
“You have?”
I don’t try to hide my skepticism. She told me about her restaurant, the Arsenal, last night, and I’ve seen it 100 times before. It’s unique, interesting, built into an abandoned brick building from World War II. Like her, it has character, but theplace is dead, almost no fucking customers ever from what Siena and Matti say.
“Don’t get me wrong, princess. Your food is un-fucking-believable, and you know I wouldn’t say it was if it wasn’t. But there’s no one there.”
She laughs uncomfortably. “Yes, cooking is my forte. Marketing, not so much. I don’t know how to get the word out. Thank God for Mr. Cavallari.”
I frown. “Who’s that?”
“He lives next door to the Arsenal and eats two meals a day there. He basically keeps the place going.”
“He does?” My frown deepens. “How much are you charging?”
“The normal amount.” She waves dismissively. “But he tips me when it’s just the two of us in the restaurant, and it usually is during the week. I try to tell him no, but he says I save him the trouble of grocery shopping. He’s just trying to be nice and I never see him with family, so I let him.”
I scowl. “Some guy is tipping you when you’re alone in the restaurant with him, and he comes twice a day every day?”
She laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “I know what it sounds like, but it’s not like that. He’s from Naples like my family, he’s in his 70s, and he’s lived in the neighborhood forever. He treats me like a daughter.”
Don’t love that, but okay.
“I know it’s not super successful yet, but I love it.” She’s glowing, her eyes bright. “I have so many ideas for specials, seasonal menus, a new dessert menu—”
She stops and blushes when she catches me watching her.
Her excitement would be contagious if I were into that kind of thing. I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t realize what a failure her restaurant is or what she could be with better resources, better location, better business sense.
“It’d be nice to make some money too, princess. You need to move somewhere people can actually find you.”
She makes a pour-over coffee and hands me a tiny cup.
I take a sip and groan out loud. Fucking good.
She shakes her head, resolute. “I’m not leaving the neighborhood. I’ve been here for a decade now.” She holds up a hand before I can argue. “Don’t look at me like that, Vincenzo. I get to cook my food my way, and it makes people happy. That makes me happy.”
“But you could make more people happy if you were in a better space in a better neighborhood.”
She ignores me and sets an insulated lunch bag in front of me. “This is for you. I’m headed to the restaurant for the rest of the day. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”
I look down at the lunch bag and back up at her. I don’t know what to say. “You made lunch for me to go? Are you trying to send a message?”
That breezy laugh again, the one that punctuates everything she says. “I did, but it doesn’t mean you have to go. I don’t know what your plans are, and I want to make sure you eat.” When I just sit there staring, she taps the lunch bag. “Promise me you’ll eat?”
I nod slowly, unable to form a coherent response.
