Looking straight into his eyes, she said quietly, ‘You took my broken heart and put it back together today. Grazie.’
Alessio wrapped his arms around her lower back, and the feel of Giacomo’s silk scarf tickled her skin. ‘I think it was you who did that for me.’
In breathy, hushed tones, she said, ‘Meet me on the terrazzo at ten once I’m done with service. We need to celebrate this properly.’
Alessio’s hold on her tightened and his moist lips grazed the delicate skin behind her ear. ‘For you, I’ll be there.’
ventiquattro
Alessio’s phone lit up as he sat awaiting her on the terrace: Arrivo! 1 minute away!
Francesca’s message prompted an uncomfortable self-awareness in him. Instinctively he stood up and flattened the front of his tee, cleared his throat and began pacing back and forth along the terrace, past the large circular lounger.
Why did this moment make him feel like this? He had looked forward to seeing her all evening, but this excitement went beyond that. Was it the way she had wrapped herself around him earlier? Or was it the echo of her hand gripped around his hardened length, his longing for the rocking of her wrist to build and release him?
He was about to send a reply text, but she was already lifting herself up the stairs.
‘Eccomi!’ she said, puffing. ‘Sorry if I kept you waiting.’
Alessio saw straight away that she’d changed her outfit. The dress she had worn to the competition was gone and in its place was a short daisy-print tea dress with generous V-neckline. The delicate edge of a cream lace-trimmed bra cup was visible as she stretched her arms wide to catch him in a tight embrace.
It felt good. To have her hold him like that, with all her force and passion . . . it was as if she claimed him as her own.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he forced himself to say, full of nonchalance and knotted nerves. ‘All done?’
‘Done. Mamma has gone home. Nonna is well and truly asleep.’
Something about this placing of everyone set his mind at ease. They were alone. ‘Ok. So, that drink?’
Fucking idiot. That makes you sound like you’re in a hurry . . .
‘Sì.’ She darted to the bar fridge, opened the little door dramatically and offered, ‘Coca. Chinotto. Vino bianco. Hmm?’
‘Bianco, per favore.’
She glanced over her shoulder at him. ‘Look who found some italiano today!’
‘I know.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m so slack. I need to try harder.’
She plucked two wineglasses from the overhead cabinet and opened the bottle, pouring for them both. ‘A te!’ she said, proffering hers.
Clink.
‘Grazie.’ He took a sip. The wine was cool and dry and he exhaled. ‘Thank God.’
With a flick of her chin, Francesca guided him to the large lounger, and they sat down together. ‘You’re happy with the outcome?’ She sipped her wine and rested the flat foot of the glass against her thigh.
‘Relieved is the word I would use.’ The way she sat on the lounger, like a mermaid on a rock, Alessio could see her bare legs, halfway up her thighs. He quickly swallowed another mouthful of the bianco.
‘Where did you get the inspiration for the dish, Alessio? It was just perfect. All those elements together. As if . . . as if you had always been here. Like you know and understand Impastino. The land. Its—’
‘It was you, actually.’
She stopped. ‘Me?’
‘I just reflected on all the things you’ve taught me. You would make an amazing teacher. It comes so naturally to you.’ Alessio watched as, even under the blanket of night, her cheeks reddened. ‘The fazzoletti. How to cut them. The finocchio di mare. The garden with all the vegetables. That wasn’t me out there. That was you. All you.’ He smiled into his wine. ‘I just got to be the one to show everyone how brilliant you are.’
‘Ale . . .’ She practically sighed this version of his name. It was familiar. As if they’d been friends and kitchen partners for years.
