‘Me?’ She pressed a melodramatic hand to her breast. ‘I am not cheeky!’
Alessio bit down on his lip before rebutting, ‘Oh, you definitely have a cheeky streak.’
‘How?!’
Alessio took a step forward, as if being drawn to her by a magnetic force. Separated by only a few inches he looked down at her and said, ‘Your eyes give you away.’
‘Really.’
He nodded, enjoying the way her defiant energy matched his playfulness. ‘Bright. Beautiful. Full of life. I think you know exactly what you’re doing . . . Cheeky.’
Francesca’s cheeks flushed. ‘And what am I doing, Signor Ranieri?’
His eyes darkened. ‘Turning me on.’
It was a bold statement, but he had to say it. Alessio wanted to assert himself in this duel of nerves.
He watched as her eyes closed. ‘Alessio . . . we can’t—’
‘I know. I get it. You don’t need to remind me.’
At that moment a fishing dinghy putt-putted into view, crossing the horizon along the cove’s opening. Once it had passed, Alessio moved towards her, pressing a kiss against her salty forehead. ‘But that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it.’
Francesca reached out a hand and caressed the bronzed skin of his chest, tracing the outline of his chef’s knife tattoo. He exhaled at her touch and bit down on his desire.
‘Francesca . . .’ he panted. ‘If we can’t do anything . . . please, don’t tease me.’
‘I’ve thought about it too . . .’ He watched as her eyes suddenly sought his for permission, and her fingers moved lower. Down his abdomen, past his belly button, and finally to the elastic waist of his bathers.
His gruff breathy moan caught in her hair as he leaned into her. ‘Francesca . . .’
With her fingertips she grazed the hair which accented his taut skin. ‘I can’t help it . . .’
Alessio felt her palm brush over him for the briefest of seconds before a second dinghy tracked along the horizon. The shock of its appearance pulled them apart.
Francesca’s hands trembled over her lips. ‘Scusami. I . . . I know better. I shouldn’t have. I can’t risk . . . I’m sorry, Alessio.’
‘I know.’ Still trying to catch his breath, he nodded, defeated, hands on his hips. ‘But fuck that felt good . . .’
And with that she ran off into the water and dove under the surface, disappearing under the jutting cliff face.
venti
As night fell, Alessio and Francesca met in the kitchen. Both were red-faced and bare-limbed on account of the heat, and both still buoyed by the sexual tension which had pervaded their afternoon.
For now, it was consolation enough for Alessio to know that she also desired him. How the future would pan out, he wasn’t sure. The situation was complicated to say the least.
With mounds of flour on their benches measured from the bag using Francesca’s precious tazza della pasta – which Alessio now knew better than to comment on – she began her lecture on tinting and colouring the dough. By their boards sat four small bowls, each holding a colouring ingredient that would take the egg dough from golden to striking: nero di seppia, for its ebony boldness; beetroot powder for warming pinks and burgundies; saffron threads for yellows and oranges, emulating edible sunshine; and spinach powder for earthy viridescence.
Alessio watched, jotting down on a notepad the quantities Francesca used for each. He could feel his fingers gripping the pen with mounting frustration as she rattled off phrases like ‘just this much . . .’ and ‘you’ll know when . . .’. He wanted precision. He needed to know the weight by gram. Eyeballing it and ‘sensing the needs of the pasta dough’ just didn’t cut it for him.
Just ask her to weigh it. Get a ballpark idea that way . . .
But he did respect her process, so he shut up and did what he was told with a polite smile and genuine interest in the task. He’d coloured pasta before. Of course he had. But he’d never done it in the company of someone who paired the colours and accompanying flavours –
no matter how subtle the inflection – with the local landscape and its people.
‘The spinach gives a slight metallic hum; it echoes that of the seagrasses that grow tangled among the rocks by the water. The squid ink sings the same song as the Adriatic’s briny depths. The beetroot is both sweet and savoury – just like the locals here in Impastino. Sweet one moment, then the next . . .’
