“Semolina is temperamental,” Luigi warns. “Treat it gentle, but do not be timid!”
Nora levels me a look. “Temperamental dough, temperamental rockstar. Isee a theme.”
“Way I hear it, librarians can be ferocious under their cardigans,” I shoot back.
She hums, noncommittal, and dives into the bowl. Idiot that I am, I match her vigor: extra water, fresh bravado—anything to keep pace with her
The dough clings, gloopy. Luigi strolls past, tuts. “More flour, signore.”
I snap Luigi a mock salute, waggle my eyebrows at Nora, and lift the flour canister with all the swagger of a Food-Network finalist. One tiny, graceful shake—that’s the plan. Instead, the lid zings off and the entire canister upends.
Five pounds of superfine white powder pour from the rim, striking the marble workstation with a muffled thud before billowing upward. The plume rises like a miniature volcanic eruption, filling the air in a dense, swirling fog. Coughs echo around the studio, and someone lets out a startled yelp as visibility drops to zero.
When the cloud finally begins to settle, and everyone reemerges, their hair, shoulders, and aprons coated in chalky white.
Nora takes the worst of it: a thick veil of flour has landed squarely on her head and lashes, frosting her chestnut-brown hair and turning her blink into slow motion.
Chef Luigi reacts as though he’s just witnessed the sack of Rome.
He stands frozen—flour swirling around his handlebar mustache—then clamps both hands to his cheeks and emits a theatrical gasp that would shame a silent-film star. “Santa Maria!” he bellows, staggering backward. “My studio! My beautiful, stainless sanctuary… what would my nonna say?”
I lunge forward with a towel, determined to rescue my dignity.
Instead, my elbow clips the bowl of tomato passata perched on the counter’s edge. The bowl flips; red sauce arcs through the air andsmacks my shirt, then hers, with a wet, unmistakable splat. Bright crimson streaks down the front of our aprons and spatters across the surrounding expensive copper pans, the sound ringing in the sudden hush.
For a heartbeat, no one moves. The only noise is the soft hiss of flour settling on stainless steel.
Then, from somewhere behind us, a camera shutter clicks—the photographer, bless his ruthless heart, is already snapping Pulitzer-winning shots of the whole spectacle.
Nora blinks through a mask of white and red. For one sick heartbeat I think she might cry. Instead she snorts. A tiny, incredulous burst that cracks the tension like a cymbal crash. And then she laughs—deep, glorious laughter that sends flour dust swirling. The grateful roar in my chest almost drops me to my knees.
“Red really is your color,” she says, voice ragged with mirth.
“Thanks, I guess,” I say sheepishly.
I find a tea towel, blot her sleeve. The passata streak stops right at the curve of her breast; my hand almost follows it. I redirect. Boundaries.
We launch into damage control—she dabs, I dab—but every pat only spreads the mess, and the flour congeals into pink paste that creeps across our aprons like blotchy water-colors.
Luigi surveys the carnage, hands on hips. “Amore is messy,” he pronounces.
Nora’s laugh falters into something quieter, something new. In that softening space between us, it’s terrifying how much I want to memorize the shape of her mouth with my own.
FLASH. Another photo.
From the edge of the chaos Vivienne hisses a stage-whisper sharp enough to slice mozzarella. “Make it look cute—NOW.”
“Cute,” Nora repeats, deadpan.
The photographer’s flash begins its impatient strobe. With exaggerated care I scoop a dollop of flour paste from my shoulder, tap it gently onto the tip of Nora’s nose. She gives me a glare that could curdle cream but doesn’t swat me away—small victory. I lean in with a folded towel and, as delicately as possible for a man who currently resembles a lasagna, dab the flour off her nose.
Click—flash.Click—flash.
The camera captures us mid-laugh: two tomato-drenched idiots, her hand pressed to my marinara-slicked chest, my thumb still poised at the tip of her freshly cleaned nose—a snapshot that will look, at a merciful distance, like playful affection.
Flash pops one final time. Vivienne’s satisfied “Perfect” sails across the studio just as a blob of sauce dribbles from my hair onto Nora’s apron. She sighs, but the corners of her mouth stay lifted.
On the far side of the studio, an aide from the photographer loses her footing on the slick of flour we have just created. She windmills for balance, but her outstretched hand lands squarely on the gas range’s ignition knob. The burner flares to life with a loud whoosh,and a narrow pillar of blue-orange flame shoots upward, licking the bottom of a copper pan.
