“I think there is,” he insists. “Why did you put the dish detergent in the fridge?”
Oops. “Surfactants work better if they’re cold when the hot water hits them.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I studied it in chemistry. A+,” I reply with the confident air of Count Mascetti.
“Anyway, I think we might have gone a little too far.”
Oh. “Absolutely,” I lie. Or rather, I agree that we went too far, but the fact is I didn’t mind it.
“From the way you ran off, I realized it was a mistake. I don’t want to complicate things between us.”
A mistake. It was just a mistake. “Of course.”
“I think I just got a little carried away. I was so taken by your words, by the atmosphere, by the flirtation that started as a joke ... Anyway, I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I didn’t behave any better.”
“You knew how to stop yourself.”
“It’s just so ... strange.” It’s not the exact word, but it’s the only one that comes to mind.
“I know. That’s why I wanted to be sure we’re on the same page. Better to pretend it never happened, right?”
“And it won’t happen again.” I say it aloud, but in reality I’m addressing my irresponsible conscience.
“Well then, as for tonight, has everyone confirmed?” he changes the subject.
“Yeah,” I reply, relieved at the idea of being back on safe territory. “Lapo and Margherita, Cosimo and his partner, and Lucia, who asked me to add another place because she’s bringing someone. Then there’s the five of us: me, Giada, you, Carletto, and his sister.”
“Eleven people? And your mom is doing the cooking?” he asks, amazed.
“No, Mamma is at the annex, making pizza for Linda and her friends. I’m cooking for us.”
Michael looks at me in amazement. “Not to doubt your abilities, but eleven mouths is a lot to feed.”
“I chose an easy menu: a preprepared charcuterie board; bruschetta with sausage and provola from Mugello; cherry tomatoes, burrata, and basil for the vegetarians; and a main ofpicipasta with vegetable ragù.”
“I’m already hungry,” he says, licking his lips. I look away, staring intently at the loaf of bread, because if nothing more is going to happen between us, I have to avoid every temptation.
“Well then, leave me to it, if you want to eat. If we keep talking, we’ll be having toast for dinner.”
“I can do better than leave you to it,” he says. “I can help you.”
I swallow dryly. Oh God. I have the feeling that these will be the longest two hours of my life.
29
Michael
It took me a while to convince her, but in the end Elisa gave in, but only because I swore not to say a word—both literally and figuratively—and to follow her orders. She prepares the toppings; I slice the bread. It’s not exactly a Cordon Bleu–level skill, but hey, even at Her Majesty’s court someone has to clean the toilets.
“Three slices each,” she orders, dicing the cherry tomatoes. “One finger thick. Then put them on the trays and brush them with oil.”
“Yes, Chef,” I shout like Gordon Ramsay’s underlings in Hell’s Kitchen.
“Are you teasing me?”
