Alessio noted it all down. He appreciated every raw morsel of pasta she fed him from her board, as well as the samples she cooked for comparison from the pot of salted boiling water. The flavour profiles changed, as did the colours.
Repeating the chorus of pasta-making doctrine on repeat the world over, he said, ‘Salty like the sea,’ and licked the pasta water off his fingers.
‘Salty like the Adriatic,’ she corrected, killing the gas under the pot. ‘Tesoro mio, I think we are done for the night.’ She pulled the ties of her apron loose, and gave it a shake over the wash trough.
‘Oh, no you don’t. Put that back on.’ He caught her arm and felt all the day’s heat, the kitchen’s warmth, and the simmering energy in her skin flow into him. ‘We are not done yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘I promised I’d teach you something tonight, and teach you something I shall.’
‘A man of his word.’
‘Always.’ Alessio reached for a plastic shopping bag he had brought into the kitchen and fanned it open. ‘Pop your little hand in there, Signorina.’ As the words left his mouth he wondered if perhaps his teasing tone was too much.
But Francesca practically sashayed across to him, her top teeth catching her bottom lip. Her voice dropped into something deeper. ‘What have you got in there, Signor Ranieri?’
He grinned but said nothing.
Her eyes scanned his face, never breaking contact as her hand dipped into the bag. She withdrew a bar of 70 per cent dark couverture chocolate and passed it to him. ‘We’re going to temper it?’
Alessio nodded, yet somehow, he couldn’t pry his gaze from her lips. ‘You’re going to do it. I’ll simply watch and guide you.’
‘Let’s do it, then.’ She rose on the balls of her feet so their eyes were level and then pulled his face towards hers with her free hand. Adrenaline shot through him at feeling her so torturously close. Then, he felt her cheek brush against his as she dropped a long delicate kiss against it. Blood stockpiled in his groin, and he felt his resolve weakening. He silently begged for her mouth to search for his. Instead her hand trickled down his bare arm from shoulder tip to wrist. Was this a welcome? An invitation in? Had she changed her mind?
Alessio suddenly felt her withdraw and slowly slink back a few steps. The air and space that opened up between them offered him the reality check his conscience had been seeking.
Just breathe . . .
‘I’ll prepare the bagnomaria,’ she said, half filling a shallow pot with water and setting it on the stove. ‘This bowl ok?’ She held up a medium-sized aluminium bowl and he nodded, so she popped it on top of the pot.
Alessio checked himself with a deep breath and reached for a chopping board and a sharp knife. ‘Let’s cut this down, and we’ll need a confectioner’s thermometer.’
After chopping and shaving down the bar, Alessio watched as Francesca scraped half the chocolate into the bowl set over the simmering pot of water, then affixed the thermometer to the side.
‘Take it to 49 or 50 degrees . . . then off it goes . . .’
For the first time since his arrival, Alessio sensed Francesca was at a loss for words. She simply followed his instructions without her usual playful quips or opinions. Her hands were quieter too, devoid of their Italianate flair and wild gesturing. Had she sensed something too? That intimate closeness . . . the heat. The tingle of their shared touch.
Stay focused. Stay on task. The chocolate . . .
‘Do you have plans for Saturday night?’ she asked, turning her head so their eyes met over her shoulder.
‘No. Why?’
‘There’s a big falò – a bonfire, no? – down by the beach. It’s a summer tradition we organise in Impastino. The dates always change. It’s organised around the weather, more than anything.’
‘Yeah, I’m in.’
‘You will love it. Simona and Carlo will be there too.’ She turned her attention back to the chocolate, checking the thermometer before giving it a stir. ‘We have a barbeque. Drink beer and Spritz, and eat too much food.’
‘Do we need to bring anything?’
‘No, no. It is provided. We pay a small fee and the organisers cater. It’s wonderful. As long as people behave themselves.’
‘Behave themselves?’ How rowdy could Impastino possibly get?
‘Not for behaviour. Bad things don’t happen. I mean . . .’ She paused, and her right hand took to gesturing her lack of vocabulary. ‘You know. Behave.’ Her eyebrows lifted with the intonation of her voice.
