Perhaps noting how Alessio took in the scene, she added, ‘Please, help yourself.’
Alessio felt a little self-conscious. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with someone cooking for him, but rather that she was waiting on him hand and foot. He was thankful for her kindness and professionalism, of course, but he recalled this was her day off and she was going out of her way for him.
‘Francesca, let me help you.’ He came up next to her at the bench and instinctively washed his hands. He double-lathered to a cream, scrubbing halfway up his forearms before rinsing.
Noting this, Francesca passed him a red-checked tea towel. ‘A true chef’s wash-up, eh?’
Catching himself, he breathed, ‘Yeah . . . and from a restaurant family.’
Did his eyes give him away? Could Francesca sense his reluctance, his reticence? The energy and spirit he had just witnessed in her seemed to ebb. He forced himself to focus on drying his hands.
‘I guess not all is well.’ Francesca tilted her head gently to the side, as if sizing him up. But there was a softness behind her dark, alluring eyes. Alessio found it calm and reassuring.
Glancing at her, he said, ‘It took you all of a minute to get this out of me.’ Despite himself, he laughed.
‘Alessio, I have no idea what is going on for you.’ Her hands gestured between them. ‘But if you want to talk about it, I’ll listen. I can be your friend here.’
His eyes traced the lines of Francesca’s face. The deeply rich olive of her skin. The warmth of her brown eyes. That tangle of dark curls, spiralling from her crown, collecting over her shoulders. He swallowed.
Friends? With this incredibly, ridiculously stunning . . .
A feeling bubbling in the depths of his belly pushed him, told him to let go. ‘Shame’ was a word he had spent a lot of time reflecting on and unpacking. All those sessions in the chair, talking, rehashing, reliving. If ever there were a moment to let someone in, inexplicably, Alessio felt that this might just be it. And it had everything to do with this beautiful perfect stranger.
Swallowing past the knot of tension which had looped itself around his throat, he steeled himself. ‘Ok, Francesca. I’ll tell you. On two conditions.’
Her eyes locked onto him. ‘I’m listening . . .’
‘The first, we finish lunch prep together.’
‘I can agree to that.’
‘And the second, if I tell you my story, you tell me yours.’
Alessio studied her for a moment as her lips pursed. Her face gave nothing away.
Francesca eventually gave a slow nod. ‘I’ll do my best.’ Her smile slowly returned, and Alessio let out a relieved breath.
‘So, lunch?’ he said, turning his attention to the myriad of dishes and ingredients on the bench in front of them. Out of habit, he pulled the corner of the tea towel through one of the belt loops of his shorts, securing it by his side.
‘Allora,’ Francesca started. ‘We will begin with these cuore di bue tomatoes.’ She gestured to the palm-sized beauties awaiting attention on the chopping board. Their shape was similar to that of a pumpkin, with deep recessed lines tracing towards the still-green stem. ‘I just picked these from the orto. Can you please collect the mozzarella from the fridge?’ Alessio did as he was told, and within moments she had thickly sliced the tomatoes and was tearing generous chunks from the ball of buffalo mozzarella. It was all laid out on a white platter. Francesca reached across to a small ramekin and took a pinch of course sea salt, scattering it across the top of the tomatoes. ‘From this part of the Adriatic coastline,’ she said, taking another pinch. Opening Alessio’s palm she sprinkled the white crystals over his skin. ‘Assaggia . . .’ she welcomed, gesturing for him to try it.
And try it he did, like always, flattening his tongue so that it pressed against his open palm. The crystals caught and their sharpness dissolved within seconds. The salty kick came, followed by the resin undertones of the sea. His mouth watered. ‘Oh, that’s good.’ He helped himself to another pinch. From the corner of his eye he saw Francesca smile as she reached for the mortar and pestle. ‘Pesto?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Better.’ Off to the side sat a collection of large, repurposed jars filled with water and freshly cut herbs. Francesca pulled a handful from two, which didn’t look anything like the marinated artichokes and fire-roasted peppers indicated on the faded, peeling labels. She tore her selections to shreds. It all went into the mortar. ‘Finocchio selvatico e centocchio,’ she explained. Taking a solitary garlic clove she sliced it in half lengthways and proceeded to rub it on the inside of the mortar, leaving a wet sheen. In went a decent pinch of the sea salt, a crack of fresh black pepper, a drizzle of aceto di vino rosso and a dramatic glug of viridescent extra virgin olive oil.
As she righted the bottle she caught a stray drip with her thumb and brought it to her mouth. Alessio watched as she rubbed it across her lips, both top and bottom, before sucking her thumb clean.
‘Ecco,’ she said, handing him the pestle. ‘You can do the honours, Chef.’
Alessio wondered when that word might stop setting off an adrenaline surge. It wouldn’t be today. But without context, without the backstory, he knew she meant nothing by it. How could she?
‘How fine do you want it?’ he asked politely, although he knew instinctively how fine he would grind the paste.
‘Like a pesto, but—’
‘Better?’
She turned and that cheeky smile returned. ‘Just wait. It will be better than any basil pesto you’ve ever eaten.’
