‘Sounds like I’m about to die and go to heaven.’
Noting the pair sitting at the next table, she bent down and whispered with a covert chin flick, ‘You will have interesting company on that journey. Do you remember Nonna’s mobile phones?’
‘I do . . .’ Alessio slowly leaned back in his chair to assess the pair.
‘These men are Nonna’s boyfriends.’
His eyes widened and his mouth dropped into an incredulous gape. ‘And . . . do they know this?’
‘That she’s dating both of them? I doubt it. They are best friends. The bald man . . .’ She mouthed the name Santino. ‘He’s Phone Number One. The short man . . .’ She mimed the name Mimmo. ‘He’s Phone Number Two.’ Francesca brought her index finger to her lips. ‘Shhh.’
‘You mentioned maybe a third phone.’ Alessio turned slightly in his chair to assess the other elderly men in the trattoria.
‘I’m too scared to look further.’ She peered cautiously around at the mostly elderly crowd, which included a disproportionate number of men. ‘It could be anyone!’
‘She’s got good taste in these two at least.’
Francesca tittered. ‘Speaking of taste . . . are we still ok for the Secret Life of Pasta session tonight, once I close the kitchen?’
He gave her a wink. ‘I’m in.’
She gave his shoulder an appreciative squeeze then left the bustling dining room to prepare his order.
* * *
‘Who is this for?’ Maria asked, craning her nose over Francesca’s shoulder at the bench.
Francesca began carefully plating Alessio’s lunch. ‘Alessio is here. And he’s hungry.’
‘Hungry for you!’ Maria cackled at her own humour, while Francesca fought the rising heat in her cheeks.
‘Nonna . . .’ She pushed Maria gently away. ‘Don’t start trouble. And don’t let Mamma hear you talk like that.’
Maria scoffed. ‘Don’t worry about her. Just focus on you.’
With each course she served Alessio, Francesca couldn’t help but linger by the corner of the serving ledge to watch him enjoy his first bites.
The way he tucked the blushing pink prosciutto around the melon, bringing it to his lips, followed by a sip of his vino bianco. He closed his eyes and nodded, sending a tingle from Francesca’s toes to her nose. Then, she watched him select the perfect mouthful of orecchiette alle sarde, being sure to collect a little of each element on his fork. As his lips closed around it, Francesca saw his left hand ball into a fist, before flattening once again on the tablecloth. His eyes closed with pleasure. But it was the mascarpone mousse that received the best reaction. He devoured it in just a few mouthfuls before shaking his head, as if searching for answers.
Alessio’s enjoyment of his lunch was painted across his face, his hands, the way his shoulders relaxed with pleasure.
She savoured the moment.
All. Of. It.
* * *
As he waited for the evening’s Secret Life of Pasta session, Alessio paced at the end of the bed, feeling at a loose end.
Lunch had completely unhinged him. Was the food chef-y and worthy of a Michelin star? No. Would it fill the cover of a magazine, luring hungry stomachs at the supermarket checkout (plastic bag in hand, of course)? No. There was nothing fancy about Francesca’s lunch, and yet the complexity of the flavour pairings had struck him. It took some chefs years to be able to cook so instinctively. To be able to balance the flavours so harmoniously.
Capers and dried olives in the same dish was a bold move, but balanced against the kiss of sweet white wine and that tomato sauce . . . it was perfection. Intelligent. The brininess of the sardines hummed through the entire dish.
Then, the cherries. Each mouthful of mousse had felt almost tantric, and had instantly brought to mind the way her fingertips had pressed one of those sun-drenched fragrant beauties to his lips by the side of the road.
He’d let his mind wander for the briefest of moments, wondering what it might be like to lick some of that whipped lusciousness from her bare skin. The tug for something more pulled at his middle.
No. Focus.
