Page 62 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

She started shaking her head and didn’t stop, staring at him, wondering if there was any possible way to escape this madness. No, there wasn’t. Whatever this was, it was happening. Who was she kidding? Never had she been more attracted to a man. Ten years, and she could still taste him.

“Here we are,” Corrado said twenty minutes later, stopping to admire the exterior of the Hotel Minerva, where his restaurant was located. The ten-story, stark-white building was constructed with modern taste: tall windows, a sharp and boxy design. Balconies on each floor. A doorman pushed open the door and greeted them.

As they walked through the lobby, Bianca asked, “Is he going to open the door for you every time you go to work?”

“He has so far. He’ll get tired of me soon.”

In the back left corner, a small, elegant sign above two white doors read Il Minerva. He twisted a key in a lock and then guided them to a small host area with a coat check. A second set of double doors led into the dining room.

She gasped as her eyes darted about, soaking it in. Crystal chandeliers hung from a thirty-foot-tall ceiling painted royal blue. In the corner stood an impressive glassed-in wine room with hundreds of bottles perched in tall racks. Potted white orchids rested on tall and skinny metal tables. Massive racy paintings hung from the cream walls. One featured two nude men dancing together under the moon, their hands on each other’s backsides. Another depicted a woman’s legs with a flock of birds forming a V shape at her thighs. A month away from the opening, but the tables were already set.

“I’m speechless.”

“Not what you expected.”

“You amaze me, you know that, right?”

He flashed a humble smile, so human, so gentle, so committed to creating something special. She shook her head as she searched his eyes, still seeing the young man who’d captured her years ago, but now seeing the man he’d become. Everything seemed to come so easy to him.

“I think you’re incredible. This. This is incredible.”

“Come see the rest.” He was like a kid showing off his sandcastle, so proud and eager.

She followed him past a velvet curtain into an immaculate and impressive kitchen. Various vegetables and fruits were spread out on one of the long stainless-steel tables. All of the equipment, the ovens, stoves, fryers, the mixers, blenders sparkled.

He gave her a quick tour, explaining how he used each machine in the kitchen.

“I made an Italian take on an Andalucían gazpacho, you know, the tomato soup. Wanna try it?”

“Sure.”

He washed his hands, then located a tray of plastic tubs in the refrigerator and set them on his workspace. He poured the soup into a bowl, a red color that could only come from Italy, explaining that he used Sicilian tomatoes that had been on a vine only two days prior.

As he began to dress the soup, he said, “Gazpacho is typically made with tomatoes, cucumber, bell pepper, bread crust, red onion, garlic, olive oil, sherry, and cumin, salt, and pepper. I add a dash of colatura di alici, an Italian fish sauce made with anchovies that are salt-aged in small chestnut barrels. Do you know it?”

She shook her head.

He professed his love for it in Italian, then returned to his work. “These are basil oil pearls, then a sprinkle of Burrata snow, made with liquid nitrogen.”

She stepped closer to look over his shoulder as he transformed his soup into an art piece. Her mouth watered.

He took tweezers and set several tiny leaves in the center. “Microgreens I grow on the roof. And then I finish with a crisp of parmesan polenta.” He set it sideways like a glacier poking up in the sea. “Finally, I top it with a compressed watermelon cube marinated in Campari.” He set the small cube on the other side, creating a sort of landscape on top of the soup.

When he finished, he invited her to take a bite. How could anyone turn a bowl of soup into a masterpiece?

“It’s too pretty to eat,” she said.

He took the spoon and gathered a bite, including one of the pearls. He started to lift it to her mouth, then said, “Hold on. Don’t move.” It felt like he’d pulled away from a kiss.

Setting down the spoon, he raced back out into the dining room and returned with a candelabra. He set it on the steel table and lit all five candles, then switched off the fluorescent lights above.

As the candlelight flickered against his face, he pulled a bottle of wine from the fridge. “This is a white pinot nero, better known as pinot noir, that’s pressed and removed of its skins so quickly that it barely retains any color. Grown by a family in Valle d’Aosta who’ve been making wine for eight generations.”

He slid a glass her way. “Now, buon appetito.”

Her first sip gave her chills.

He watched her every move.