‘Oh, that kind of behaviour.’
‘Eh, sì. It’s a night that new couples are formed, some are broken. People kiss. And situationships go too far.’ Her focus returned to the chocolate and she fiddled with the thermometer.
Situationships? Alessio kept a straight face at her adorable English, but the cold, hard reality of the situation sank in a little further. What the hell is this? We’re pretending to be cousins for a pasta cooking challenge. I sleep in your bed. In your apartment. We’re friends. And friendly. But I am attracted to you and want to do more than just kiss you. And I know you want the same. But instead we’ll just make pasta and knead our sexual frustrations away? Hmmm.
‘So you’ll come?’ She took a folded tea towel for protection from the heat and lifted the bowl off the top of the pot. ‘Fifty degrees. Exactly.’ Setting it down on the bench she continued to stir, dropping in the remaining chocolate shards.
‘Absolutely. Besides keeping up appearances and all, it sounds like a laugh.’
Francesca dipped the tip of her middle finger into the smooth melted chocolate. She brought it to her lips and licked it off in one sensual movement. ‘Mmm. Buono.’
And before it could register properly, before it could sharpen in his consciousness, she dipped it in again and offered him her finger with a loaded smile. ‘Would you like to try?’
His eyes flicked between the chocolate and her mischievous eyes, and he realised she’d caught him again. But this time, he pressed forward, determined to test the waters. ‘If I do, will you judge me?’
With the tip of her tongue now grazing the tops of her teeth, she slowly, with calculated, suggestive timing, shook her head. ‘No, no.’
That throbbing thrum of want in Alessio’s groin reignited as he leaned forward, catching her chocolate-dipped finger between his lips.
The cacao.
Sugar.
A hint of Madagascan vanilla.
Her skin . . .
Their eyes locked and he couldn’t help but smile coyly into the moment.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. And I am like a moth to a flame.
‘Buono?’ Her eyes sparkled, and Alessio was under her spell.
You want a situationship? I’ll give you a situationship . . .
Without dropping her gaze, he let his tongue catch the underside of her finger, gradually caressing its way up its length to the tip. There, he gave it three rhythmic flicks with his tongue; gentle enough to match her energy, yet brazen enough to move the goalpost.
And judging by the way her eyes closed in response, her chest rising under her hitched breath, he knew he had her. Alessio let go of her hand, and watched her eyes spring open. ‘Perfectly melted. Drop it to twenty-nine degrees, then put it back on the heat.’
A momentary blankness filled her expression, as if she had to get her bearings. Then with a nod, Francesca bent to assess the thermometer again. ‘Sì, Chef.’
As he turned away, Alessio glimpsed her giving a little stolen shake of the head, and his insides churned.
This is a game I can play too . . .
ventuno
The week rolled on and the lessons in pasta continued, and intensified.
Tuesday evening, Francesca decided on a fazzoletti and lasagne masterclass, and Alessio took things up a notch tutoring her with brandy and flambé. Wednesday was all about sharp-edged crimping, cutting and stamping, with freshly sharpened tools. It paired perfectly with Alessio’s deboning of a chicken. Thursday’s session was dedicated to the inimitable orecchiette tradition, native to the region. Alessio chose to offer a crash course on knife skills. Friday was earmarked to improve Alessio’s knowledge of filled pasta, given the dough-filled-ravioli fiasco.
With just two weeks until the first round of the festa, they were working hard to cover all bases. As their Secret Life of Pasta sessions gathered pace, so did their irrefutable sexual tension, rising and falling as if with the tides of the Adriatic. While they had been able to contain whatever it was that was simmering between them – salty and bubbling, like the pots of water which boiled on the stove – Francesca knew that the bonfire would test them both. And yet, she was ravenous to consume whatever Saturday evening dished up.
Because now, she was starving.
Elena caught Francesca’s arm as she bolted through the trattoria during the busy Saturday dinner service.
‘Be careful.’ Elena’s piercingly dark eyes bored into Francesca’s.
