Page 86 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

George was charming and kind as he probed Corrado with questions. “How does one get a Michelin star?” he asked.

“There are certain standards we must meet. The service has to be impeccable, the ambiance exceptional, the food consistent, creative, and extraordinary.”

“And who gives the star?”

“An inspector. He’s undercover, visits a few times, and the chef’s success depends on him. Or her. This is why there can be no mistakes. Ever. Perfection night after night.”

“Sounds stressful.”

“Naturally. I suppose running a restaurant is a lot like writing a book. The pain is equal to the reward.”

Bianca cracked open a jar of olives. “Dad, I’m sorry you won’t get to go to the opening. He really is great.” She told him about the gazpacho.

Corrado added, “I’m working on a new dish now, a veal cheek braised for twenty-four hours, then served on a fennel root cream sauce; finished with a dehydrated wild mushroom and a sprinkle of rosemary ash.”

George’s eyes expanded. “I see.”

Bianca felt a desperate need to explain. “Dad’s more of a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”

“It’s true. I’m more Michelob Ultra than Michelin. But it sounds nice.”

“I think you’d like it,” Bianca said, ignoring George’s awful humor. “You have to open your mind. Food isn’t always about eating for sustenance. Corrado’s an artist. You should see his Insta page. Pure food porn.”

“Food porn?”

“That’s what they call it. Pictures of the dishes.”

“Well, I wish you well. Sorry I won’t get to taste your food.” George continued from there, interrogating Corrado, prying deeper than she would have preferred.

Immensely relieved, Bianca sprang to her feet quickly when Corrado suggested that he better go. She followed him down the stairs, and only once they’d reached the street did they speak.

“You didn’t realize what you’re getting into, did you?” she asked the chef.

“It’s great to see him again.”

“Right. Because he’s so easy, isn’t he?”

“He’s curious, that’s all.”

She searched his eyes, so warm and dazzling. “So you don’t return my text for days and then show up?”

“Did I not respond?” He dug out his phone. “I texted you back, that lovely picture you sent. Oh, sorry, I never sent the message. I’m a mess with the restaurant opening in two weeks.”

He seemed to be telling the truth and took her hand. “What happened, why did you leave me the other day? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just . . . like I said. I’m a mess, and I was sparing you from it.”

“I don’t want to be spared, Queen Bee. I like you. I miss you.” He ran his hands down her upper arms, then gently pulled her in. “I want you.”

She kissed him.

“Come with me,” he said, the temperature of the air around them rising. “Come home with me.”

She felt the question in all the right places. “I want to, but I can’t. My dad . . . it’s weird. He’s going to freak out about this, worrying that I’m with someone here in Bologna, far away from the States.”

Corrado didn’t fight her. He gave a simple shrug.

She kissed him again. “I really want to—”