Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Valentina
“ O kay, I’ll have another drink,” I announced. “But you have to tell me your name first. I can’t keep thinking of you as Table Seven.”
He stuck out his hand. “Luca DiMarco.”
“Val Montella.”
I put my hand in his and large fingers engulfed mine. Warm, rough skin wrapped around me. He had a strong grip—a man’s grip. Heat rolled through me and settled between my legs.
“Val?” he asked.
“Short for Valentina.”
“Ah. That is a beautiful name.”
“I’ve always hated it. Sounds too much like ‘valentine.’”
His eyebrows pulled low, like he was confused. “It is from the Roman name Valentinus, which derives from the Latin word valens . It means ‘healthy’ or ‘strong.’ This is an honorable name in Italia.”
Oh, boy. Sexy and smart? My body was about to go up in flames so I forced myself to let go of his hand. Still, his touch lingered on my skin.
I shoved aside the unwelcome attraction and accepted another full glass of wine from him. I made sure not to let our fingers touch this time. “So, what do you want to know?”
“Why are you here instead of attending school?”
Leaning against the stainless steel counter, I cradled my glass in my hand. “My mother ran this place after my grandfather died. But when she died three years ago, I took over.”
“I am sorry to hear this. But is there no one else? A cousin or an uncle?”
I narrowed my eyes on him. “A man, you mean?”
“An adult, I mean.”
“I am an adult.”
He sipped his wine and stared at me over the rim. “Barely. Regardless, you need a firmer hand with your staff. You let them speak to you as if you’re a friend, not the boss.”
“Maybe. But it’s been hard to keep people around. I can’t afford to—” I bit my lip, stemming my thoughts. “I was going to say I can’t afford to lose anyone else. But in one night I’ve lost almost everyone.”
“This can be good, no? A fresh start.”
A bitter, loud laugh escaped my mouth. “Sure. Because it’s so easy to hire people here.” And I was running out of money. The restaurant had been operating in the red for the last eight months, using up the remainder of my mother’s life insurance payout. I didn’t know how much longer I could stay afloat.
“If the food and wages are good, people will come.”
He was talking in circles and I really wasn’t in the mood for?—
My stomach chose that precise moment to make a hideously loud noise. Mortified, I froze and prayed the floor would swallow me whole. Then I put my hand on my belly, like I could stem whatever was happening in there. “Sorry. Ignore that.”
He paused, glass halfway to his mouth. Then he frowned. “When was the last time you ate? ”
I thought back over the day. I’d skipped the employee meal to deal with a particularly nasty vegetable supplier. Did I eat a power bar from my desk? No, it was breakfast. A bagel, I was pretty sure.
Luca sighed heavily, sounding aggrieved, and put down his glass. He took off his suit coat, then folded and placed it on the counter. Suddenly, I was distracted by wide shoulders encased in a crisp white shirt. No tie, so I could see a bit of his chest and the hair dusting his skin. Everything about him was so manly, completely different from any guy my age.
He walked around me, behind the pass, toward the gas stove. On the way he began rolling up his shirt sleeves, revealing strong forearms and tanned olive skin. I must’ve had more wine than I thought, because I itched to run my fingers over those forearms, trace the veins and tendons there.
He peeked into the pans left on the stove and pushed them out of the way, then searched through the utensils and cookware. He produced a clean sauté pan and set it on a burner.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
A clean apron appeared in his hands, which he wrapped around his waist. “Making you dinner.”
Dinner?
No way was he cooking me food. I must’ve misheard him. “I’m sorry, what?”
Instead of repeating himself, he peeked into a pot of water leftover from earlier. Luca poked at the limp noodles and shook his head. “Mamma mia,” I heard him mutter before he carried the pot to the trash and upended it, sending the pasta and water into the garbage.
Taking a fresh stockpot to the sink, he filled it with water and set it on a burner, which he lit with a flick of his wrist. He moved briskly, efficiently, like someone comfortable in the kitchen. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes.
A hot Italian man who looked like this and cooked? It wasn’t fair. I’d practically grown up in this restaurant and I was hopeless with preparing food .
“Where is your garlic?” he asked, rummaging through the spices.
“It’s there.” I walked around the counter and found the container of garlic powder. “Here.”
He looked at the container in my hand and his upper lip curled into a sneer. “I meant your fresh garlic.” He selected the salt and poured some into the pot on the stove.
“Fresh garlic should be in the cooler.”
“Bring me a head.”
Not “will you,” or “can you.” Just a clear order to fetch the ingredients for him. Didn’t stop me from walking to the cooler, though.
“Anything else?” I asked over my shoulder with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“Three chili peppers. And some parsley.”
The inside of the cooler was a mess. Vegetables were placed with no rhyme or reason, and today’s delivery hadn’t even been put away yet. I sighed. Another project for tomorrow.
I searched the shelves for Luca’s requests. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any chili peppers, only green bell, so I grabbed three along with fresh parsley.
He glared at the items in my hands. “Those are not chili peppers.”
“I couldn’t find any, so I took these. Won’t they work?”
He muttered in Italian and took the parsley. “Put those peppers back.”
I did as ordered. When I returned, he was expertly chopping parsley on a wooden cutting board. He handled the knife like a professional chef, but I was mesmerized by the muscles in his forearms as he worked. He looked strong. And competent.
Stop. He’s too old for me. And I’m not interested.
Okay, maybe I was a tiny bit interested in those forearms.
Bending, he searched below. He dangled the giant container of olive oil in his two fingers like he was holding a dead rat. “This was made in Texas .”
I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling defensive. “That is good olive oil.”
He uncapped the container and sniffed inside. “It’s shit.”
“Well, that's all we have.”
“This is your problem,” he said, drizzling some of the oil into a sauté pan. “You don’t know real food. Tell me, what is your favorite dish?”
That was easy. “Chicken Parm.”
He snorted. “Not from Italia. Next?”
It wasn’t? “Spaghetti and meatballs.”
“Again, not a dish from Italia.”
Now I was getting annoyed. “Then why are those dishes on every Italian menu in the world?”
He added parsley stems and cloves of garlic to the hot oil. “Not in authentic restaurants, they aren’t.” He stirred the stems and garlic with a metal spoon.
I went for my wine glass, needing something to do other than stare at this infuriating and beautiful man. “Well, here in America, we like chicken parm and spaghetti and meatballs.”
“You will like this better.” He added a fistful of spaghetti to the boiling water, then returned to the sauté pan. He removed the garlic pieces and stems, tossed them in the trash, then reached for two more garlic cloves and a grater. Like it was the easiest thing in the world, he grated the garlic into the warm oil.
I drank and watched, fascinated. Grating garlic? What magic was this?
He added chopped parsley, red pepper flakes, and a ladle of pasta water, then mixed it all around. “Do you have cheese? Real cheese, not the powdered kind.”
“Yes, we have real cheese.”
“Va bene. Bring me pecorino. Or Parmigiano-Reggiano.”
“I have hunks of parmesan.”
From his sigh of disappointment, you’d have thought I said we use a non-meat substitute in our meatballs. I’d better not mention that the parmesan came from a big-box discount chain.
I delivered the cheese to him and leaned against the counter. “You’re a food snob. And a wine snob.”
“You say this like it is a bad thing.” He removed the pasta with tongs and added it all to the sauté pan. “But you will taste this and learn why simple quality ingredients are best.”
Another ladle of pasta water, then he reached for the cheese and the grater. I enjoyed more forearm muscle porn as he grated the cheese atop the noodles. “Find me two plates,” he said.
Taking the handle of the pan, he lifted it and began tossing the noodles in the sauce with little flicks of his wrists. I stood there, frozen, watching. Not a splash or a drop spilled. He worked the pasta around, his strong hands both capable and sexy, and I knew without a doubt those hands would be just as capable and strong on a woman’s body. My heart was racing in my chest just thinking about it.
“Plates, Valentina,” he repeated, and I realized I’d been staring at him for far too long.
I grabbed two plates from the overhead shelf, then Luca twirled two heaping servings onto the plates, making sure to add more sauce. He grated more cheese on top, then lifted both of the plates. “Bring our wine and follow me.”
Another order. This man did not know the word please. I grabbed the wine glasses and bottle and trailed him into the empty dining room. He’d already placed the plates on a clean table and was removing the apron when I caught up. He held out a chair for me.
It felt weirdly intimate to be out here alone with him in a restaurant. Almost like a date.
No, he’s just old school. Gentlemanly. He feels sorry for me.
“Thank you,” I said as I sat down.
Luca lowered himself into the seat opposite and placed the napkin on his lap. “Buon appetito.”
“It smells amazing.”
“It will taste amazing, as well. ”
He topped off our wine as I took my first bite. The sauce was a tad spicy but creamy, silky smooth in my mouth. The garlic flavor was the perfect amount. I quickly took another bite. “Oh, god. This is so fucking good.”
Luca hadn’t touched his plate. Instead, he reclined in his chair, wine glass in hand, and studied me as I ate. “I’m glad you think so.”
“No, seriously,” I said around another mouthful of food. “How can you produce something this good, this flavorful in five minutes? It’s not fair.”
“More like fifteen, no? And this dish would be better with the right cheese and real peppers.”
I was too hungry to argue. After a few more bites, I asked, “How did you learn to cook? Did you go to culinary school?”
He sipped his wine. “I learned by watching. Food is very important in a family in my country.”
“Do you have a big family?”
“Yes. I have three brothers, but I’m the oldest. They have always been my responsibility.”
“Where are you from in Italy?”
“Catanzaro. Do you know where that is?”
“No. Is it near Rome?”
“Not even close. If you think of Italia like a boot, Catanzaro is the instep.”
“That makes sense. I think my father’s side is from near Naples, but I’m not entirely sure.”
He didn’t say anything, merely drank his wine, but I could feel his eyes on me as I continued to eat. When I finished my pasta, he swapped out my empty plate with his untouched one. I frowned at him. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“No, signorina. You eat it.” He waved his hand then poured himself more wine.
I wasn’t shy, not about food. If he didn’t want it, then the pasta was fair game. And it was too good to let it go to waste .
Digging in, I twirled another forkful. “Why are you in Paesano? Do you have family here?”
“I’m here for business.”
Now the suit made sense. “What kind of business?” I kept eating, trying to appear casual, like I wasn’t fishing for information when I totally was.
“Meetings.” He waved his hand again, the silver watch on his wrist gleaming in the soft overhead lighting. “Nothing exciting, I’m afraid.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I rented a house on the river.”
“Wow, that must be cool. There are some really nice houses up there. I suppose that’s better than staying at Anne’s Bed and Breakfast in town.”
“I prefer my privacy.”
Something about the way he said it, a low husky, suggestive tone, caused me to glance up at him. Our eyes met and I swore a little arc of heat jumped between us. My breath caught and I couldn’t look away from his intense dark stare. At this particular moment, he was watching me like I was his plate of delicious pasta. My mouth went dry and I could feel my pulse racing.
Was he hitting on me?
The idea seemed ludicrous. But that stare . . . it could melt ice from across the room.
Because I had zero chill, I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I’m not going home with you tonight.”