Ale.
Something about it chiselled itself onto his skin. As if it were a new tattoo, a branding. He’d never been ‘Ale’, but it felt so incredibly, deeply intimate. As if that might be what she whispered in his ear in the dark, cocooned in their body-warm linen . . .
He caught himself. This pull of desire was becoming ever stronger. He tore himself from the unhelpful thoughts and affirmed, ‘All you, Francesca. Please just take the compliment.’
She nodded humbly. ‘Va bene. Grazie. But perhaps we can just call it teamwork?’
Teamwork? There’s nothing remotely ‘leading’ about teamwork.
‘Sure,’ he smiled.
‘Lots of people have shared photos with me from today,’ she said, shifting closer to him on the lounger. Phone in hand, she opened the Photos app and flicked through so he could see the collection. ‘Do you mind if I share something to our Instagram profile about your success today?’
It hadn’t even dawned on Alessio that the restaurant might be on social media. But then something pricked his conscience. ‘Is that a smart move?’
Her brow gathered pensively for a moment. ‘Hmm. I hadn’t thought of it like that . . .’ With pursed lips she mulled this over, finally saying, ‘No, we need to do something. It would look strange if we didn’t.’ She kept flicking through the photos.
‘Stop. That one.’ Alessio caught her mid-swipe. ‘Just the dish. That’s what we should focus on.’
‘Bravo, Alessio! Yes. And perhaps we can add it to the menu as a special for the week?’
‘Excellent. Do it.’
Francesca opened Instagram and it defaulted to Trattoria dei Fiori’s profile. She selected New post, uploaded the photo and typed some text in Italian. She added some hashtags, a backing track, and hit Share.
‘Do you have Instagram?’ she asked.
‘I do. But under a pseudonym.’
‘Ha!’ she chuckled. ‘Me too! I’m @fatina.fusilli. Who are you?’
‘I’ll tell you, but please don’t use it against me.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I can’t promise you that.’
Through a smile, he said, ‘@goose_ranieri.’
‘Goose? The bird? L’oca?’
Alessio dropped his face into his hands. ‘Why the fuck did I just give that away so easily? How do you always manage to do that?’
‘Goose?’
‘Yes. Goose. When I was younger, in high school, my nickname was Goose.’
Her laughter filled the air. ‘Why Goose?’
‘Because of this schnoz!’ He grabbed hold of his aquiline nose and gave it a honk. ‘Like a goose. That name followed me everywhere. Even to soccer on the weekends, through my chef training. My friends and some of my family still call me Goose.’
She cocked her head to the side and assessed him kindly. ‘You have the most perfect nose.’ Giving it a gentle caress, she added, ‘I hope you’re not offended by it.’
‘I was initially. Not anymore. The honking got annoying really quick, though.’
‘Immagino.’
‘What about you? Nonna Maria calls you Francé, and your mamma, Cesca. Is that as far as it goes?’
She was mid-swallow and shook her head. ‘No. I too have a “Goose”.’
