Alessio’s hands, still doughy, dropped to his board. ‘I’m sorry. I . . . I shouldn’t have said anything. That was rude and I . . .’
Francesca half turned so that her hands remained connected to the dough. ‘Thank you.’ He was surprised that she held his gaze. ‘I don’t often hear apologies around here.’
Ughh.
‘I’m only just learning how to give them.’ He returned his attention to the dough and his hands found a slower, more cautious rhythm. ‘Being here is a little harder than I thought it would be.’
‘What’s on your mind?’
In the spirit of growth and humility, of finding his roots and connecting to the land under his feet, Alessio allowed himself to be brutally, painfully honest. Because he knew that acknowledging these patterns could help set him free.
‘I’m wanting to judge,’ he said. ‘You. The kitchen. Your cup. Your nails. The fact that I can’t see the proper safety gear in the kitchen – a fire extinguisher, a fire blanket. And I am frustrated with myself that that’s where my mind goes. I hate that my mindset is so critical. Because you’re right, this is your kitchen. It’s not mine. We aren’t in my commercial kitchen in Melbourne. We’re in Impastino, in Italy, where life is different, standards are different. Not right. Not wrong. Just . . .’
‘Different.’ Alessio wasn’t expecting this, but her dough-webbed fingers reached over and wrapped around his on the bench. ‘You’re not offending me, Alessio. You’re being honest.’
‘It doesn’t come off well, though.’
She stifled a kind smile. ‘I’ll just put that to the side for now, eh?’
‘I appreciate it. This is all very new to me – sharing the kitchen with someone. And having to learn from someone. I haven’t done that for a very long time.’
‘You don’t have control.’
‘And my brain is clearly delighted.’ His sarcastic grin made her laugh into his shoulder, and the warmth of her skin and breath permeated his cotton tee. Without his hands, all Alessio could do to acknowledge her gesture was to drop the side of his head to rest against her crown. ‘Thank you for understanding.’
‘You’re helping me too, Alessio. I owe you so much. Please, let’s just be gentle with each other.’
Gentle?
It seemed an odd word choice, but the longer he mulled over it, the more he took to it. Gentleness. The idea of treading slowly and considerately alongside each other. He liked it. A throwaway line people often say is, Be kind to yourself. But the notion of being gentle, having consideration for the fragility and softness of others, well, it gelled with him. Because he had spent so much time being far from gentle.
‘I think you’re the person I can learn to be gentle with.’
She pulled herself from his shoulder and at just a few inches distance, she whispered, ‘You can always be gentle with me. But you need to learn this gentleness with yourself too.’
Those deeply magnetic brown eyes of hers lured him in. It was as if they had locked his vulnerability in place and peeled back the bandage that exposed some of his deepest wounds. The ones that were taking their time to heal.
Francesca’s energy suddenly shifted. Her eyes flicked for a moment down to his mouth and he detected the slightest parting of her lips. Did she want him to say something? To do something? To kiss her?
At that last thought, the desire he’d been trying to deny bubbled up within him, and Alessio let his mind wander to her mouth, down her neck, across her breasts . . . Suddenly the ache in his chest morphed into the thrum of want, and what he wanted was her.
Just as he was about to test the water, to dip lower and read her reaction, she pulled from his hold.
‘Sorry,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘The dough is drying . . .’
Is that it? Nothing more? But what just—?
* * *
Francesca silently berated herself as she returned her attention to her dough. She’d let herself be drawn in by that sweet tender side of Alessio he was letting her see more of. It was the side that made her chest swell and her hands fidget. And no matter how difficult he seemed to think he was being, it was nothing she couldn’t forgive him for. It was his openness that allowed her in, it was his transparency that allowed them to share in his challenges. And she was grateful for all of it.
‘Keep your dough moving, quickly now. It’s drying.’ She gestured with a nod to his board. He listened and within a few minutes the dough had changed. They had kneaded for just long enough to allow the gluten to relax, and the tension in the air to dissipate. ‘Once it no longer feels angry, and the egg accepts the flour, you step away. They need time to become one.’
Alessio had gone quiet since that moment, and Francesca now worried she had perhaps gone too far being so physically affectionate with him. She tried to act as if nothing had happened as she reached for some tools – a rolling pin, a butter knife, a serrated knife, a crimped-edged dough-cutting wheel, and a fine wooden dowel rod. Then she offered Alessio a matching set.
‘Our tools of the pasta trade,’ she said, keeping her voice light. ‘Shall we play a little game?’
Alessio’s lips curled into a sheepish smile. ‘Sure. Why not?’
