Chapter 12
The bell jingles,announcing a visitor. I’m elbows-deep in suds cleaning up after our last tasting.
“Ciao, Lorenzo,” Nina says silkily. I glance over my shoulder. Nina leans over the tasting bar, her cleavage not leaving much to the imagination. She straightens up when a petite woman follows Lorenzo into the store.
“Ciao, Nina. Buongiorno, Summer.” Lorenzo’s smooth voice rolls over my body like a fine Italian wine. He walks over to where I’m washing. His clean, masculine scent invades my senses in the most delicious way as he leans against the counter next to me. “How was your morning?”
I smile and turn off the water. “It was good. I was really nervous, and I fumbled a little talking about the olive oil, but Nina jumped in and helped. We had two couples from Germany, and they were very friendly. They bought a case of olive oil.”
“Mmm, bene. You’ll get the hang of it.” He pushes away from the counter. “Summer, I’d like you to meet my mom, Stella.”
I quickly dry my hands and turn around. Stella Rossi looks like an older version of Fiore. She pats Nina’s hand and turns to me with a wide smile. “Buongiorno, Summer, it’s lovely to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you from Lorenzo and Mamma Rossi.”
I smile nervously, my eyes darting to Lorenzo.
“Fiore said you’ll be joining us for lunch today? I’d love to hear more about the adorable American woman my Renzo won’t stop talking about.”
Lorenzo snorts and shakes his head. “Mamma, per favore smettila.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking chagrined. Stella waves her hand at him.
“Oh, well I—”
“Sí! Mi piacerebbe…I’d love to. We all go to lunch.” Nina claps her hands, ignoring Lorenzo’s steely gaze. She flips the front door sign to ‘closed’.
“Lunch is the most important meal of the day in Italy.” Smiling, Stella gently takes my arm, steering me down the hall. “Wait until you have Fiore’s Bolognese. It’s to-die-for.”
The café is more like a beautiful fairy garden, with flowing fountains and blooms in every color, butterflies flitting from one bud to the next. It has a stunning view of the olive orchard below and distant rolling hills. Six tables with red umbrellas sit in the garden, four of them already occupied. Where did these people come from?
As if reading my mind, Stella leans in to me. “The café entrance is on the other side. There’s a gift shop I help run that sells dishes, knickknacks, and kitchen utensils. People are encouraged to shop or wander around the gardens. If it’s slow on your side, then you’ll come help over at my shop.”
Nonna Rossi is already seated at the table in a silk cream top and palazzo pants, which seems to be her signature outfit. Lorenzo dips down, kissing her cheek. “Renzo, I was hoping you’d invite Summer to lunch.” Nonna smiles affectionately at me and pats the seat next to her. “You sit here by me.”
“Ciao, Signora Rossi.”
“Ciao, Nina,” Nonna Rossi says, pursing her lips.
A man with black hair dressed in a black apron approaches the table. “Buongiorno, famiglia! Ah, you must be Summer.” He bows, his vivid blue eyes sparkling. “I’m Fredo, your humble servant. What can I get you to drink?”
“Two bottles of red, Fredo, and sparkling water, per favore,” Lorenzo answers for the table.
“Sí, sí. The special today is Bolognese. I will bring out some antipasti.”
My stomach rumbles as the delicious aromas drift out into the garden.
“Fiore doesn’t have a menu here. It’s pretty much what she makes is what you get,” Stella explains.
“But no one ever complains. Fiore is a genius in the kitchen,” Lorenzo adds.
“Unless you’re vegetarian,” Nina jokes, but it falls flat. Nonna Rossi glares at her.
“Summer, have you toured the farm yet?” Stella asks.
“No, not yet.”
“I’m sure Renzo can take you this afternoon.” Stella smiles.
I choke on the sparkling water Fredo poured me. “Oh, I’m sure he has plenty to do without having to give me a tour,” I say, feeling Lorenzo’s gaze wash over me.
“She can jump on the two p.m. tour with me.” Nina examines her reflection in the spoon, making a pouty face.
“No. Lorenzo takes her,” Nonna Rossi demands.
“I have a meeting at two, but we can go right after lunch, sí?” Lorenzo says, checking something on his phone.
“Uh, sure, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Lorenzo is always busy,” Nina gripes. “Giving a tour to a store girl is the last thing he needs to do. You’re putting him out, Summer.”
My eyes widen, and my cheeks are on fire as I look around the table. Hello awkward, my old friend.
“Honestly, I don’t need—”
“Nina, fatti i fatti tuoi,” Nonna Rossi says sharply.
“Nonna.” Lorenzo gives his grandmother a warning glance. “It will be fine, Nina. Summer is not putting me out.”
Everyone at the table stares at Nina, except me, because I’m gulping my wine. I’d like to hide under the table until closing time.
“What did I say? I must have used the wrong English words.” Nina types away on her phone, oblivious to the tension she caused.
“Ci scusiamo. Nina, vieni qui,” Nonna says, scooting her chair back. Lorenzo helps her up from the table.
“Nonna Rossi è molto drammatica,” Nina grumbles before excusing herself from the table to follow Nonna.
Fredo and Fiore bring out plates heaped with pasta. “This here is pappardelle all’anatra. This one is penne alba fiesolana, and this one is tortelli Mugellani with olives and sausage. Mangiare, bere e godere! Eat, drink, and enjoy.” Fiore kisses her mom and brother’s cheeks before moving on to check on another table.
I groan after tasting the first bite. The food is orgasmic. The flavors roll over my tongue, tasting of sunlit hills and warm breezes, of shady tree-lined roads, open pastures, and calm seas. I open my eyes to find Lorenzo staring intently at me. His eyes darken into stormy gray pools. His gaze drifts to my lips.
“Did I moan out loud? Sorry, I can’t help myself. This food is incredible.”
“It’s always a pleasure to watch someone enjoy Fiore’s cooking for the first time.” Stella laughs. “Have you always lived in California?”
“Born and raised.” I smile. “I love it, but it’s getting expensive to live there. The weather is perfect, but the taxes are very high and the traffic is awful.”
“Sounds like Rome,” she says. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Oh, um…” I pick up my wineglass and gulp.
“She’s single,” Nonna Rossi says loud enough for the next town over to hear, as she returns to the table.
“Such a pretty girl not to have a boyfriend, don’t you think, Renzo?”
“Mamma, smettila di molestarla.” Lorenzo glares at his mom.
Stella waves him off. “And what do you do in California?”
“I’m a graphic designer.”
“Oh, how wonderful! I can’t find my way around a computer to save my life. That’s why I stick to the shop.”
“Don’t let her fool you, Summer. Stella Rossi is one of the sharpest women I know. She could run Rossi Olive Oil blindfolded.” Lorenzo leans back and grins.
“Ah Renzo, basta.” Stella blushes.
“Her friend says that Summer loves to cook and clean. She’s a baker,” Nonna pipes up.
Wait, what? Is she talking about me?I groan remembering when Harrison told her I could be a baker.
“Wonderful, Summer! Perhaps you and Fiore can cook together,” Stella says.
“Oh, wait. No, you misunderstood, Nonna. I’m not a baker or a cleaner. I mean, I’m not awful, like burning-toast horrible, but nothing like this…and I don’t clean.” Backpedal, Summer. “I’m clean…tidy, but I don’t clean people’s houses for a living. Of course, I can vacuum with the best of them, but…” My voice trails off as Nonna and Stella stare at me with quizzical amusement. I press my lips together.
Lorenzo chuckles and pours more wine.
Thankfully, Nina returns to the table and the conversation is dropped.
“Ready, Summer?” Lorenzo asks after Fredo clears our plates.
“I’m so full. Are we walking?” I stand, holding a hand over my stomach, the wine and afternoon sunshine making me groggy.
“You’ll get used to eating Italian food after a while.” Lorenzo pushes his chair back in. “The key is small bites and portions. We’ll take a golf cart.”
I stop him by placing my hand on his arm. “You don’t have to give me a tour. I can go with Nina later.” Although I’m a hundred percent positive she’d accidentally run me over with the golf cart.
He looks at my hand and then up at me. “Lo voglio far…I want to.”
I drop my hand and turn to Nonna Rossi and Stella. “Grazie…er, for lunch.”
“Grazie per il pranzo.” Lorenzo grins.
“Grazie per il pranzo,” I repeat, earning a big smile from him. Nonna Rossi wraps me in a hug before roughly pushing me toward Lorenzo. For such a delicate-looking woman, I’m amazed by her arm strength. Nina excuses herself and heads toward Fredo.
“Have fun.” Stella winks at me before helping Nonna Rossi toward the French doors.
Lorenzo and Iwalk through the café out to another parking lot out back by the Rossi buildings. We approach what looks to be a mini Rolls Royce. “Wow, is that a golf cart?”
Lorenzo chuffs, sliding into it. “It’s a Garia design out of Denmark. They are modeled after a Mercedes Benz.”
“Fancy,” I muse, running a hand over the custom leather seats that are nicer than my car.
“Ready?”
“Ready.” I brace myself for a bumpy ride, but the golf cart takes off smoothly.
Lorenzo points toward the olive groves. “My great-grandfather bought the farm with twenty trees at the turn of the century. We now have two hundred acres.” I hear the note of pride in his voice, and it makes me smile. “The busiest time of year at the farm is during harvest season in November. We store the olive oil in the cellars underneath the farmhouse here.”
We pull up next to a large warehouse.
“I’m confused. Where is the farmhouse?”
Lorenzo chuckles. “Sorry, we call this building the farmhouse because it’s where the original structure was. We needed a large space for storage when the temperatures drop to freezing.”
“What happens during the summer?”
“During the summer, we take care of the trees, get ready for harvest, and promote the tourism of the farm. This isn’t just an old olive farm, it’s a multibillion-dollar business. The corporate offices are in that building over there.” He points to a one-story building with large windows, designed to match the villa.
“It’s really impressive,” I say, nodding my head in appreciation, which earns me a devastating smile.
We stop at an overlook next to a stone wall and get out. I sit down and take pictures of the beautiful rolling hills and the town tucked down into a valley. I breathe in the clean air and soak in the sunshine. I feel on top of the world up here.
“It’s beautiful, Lorenzo…bello.”
He sits down next to me. “Please, call me Renzo or Ren. All my friends do.”
My heart does a jumping jack. Are we friends now? “How do you know which trees produce black olives and which produce green?”
“They are one and the same. Green olives are normally picked in September or October. Black olives are ripened green olives we pick in November. Green olives have more antioxidants, while black olives, as they mature, contain more water and oil. We mainly grow Frantoio and Leccino varieties, which are best for olive oil production. We handpick all of our olives to preserve nature and to make our lives more difficult.” He throws me a grin. “But that’s the way my great-grandfather did it, so we carry on the tradition.”
“Wow, how long does it take to pick a tree?” There are rows and rows of olive trees sloping down the hillside. I can’t imagine the amount of people they have working here.
“Traditional way is three to four pickers per tree, taking them about an hour to rake off the olives, or we use a scuittatore to shake the olives from the branches. Then we wrap up the nets and dump the olives into large crates. We harvest in the morning and crush in the afternoon. The olives then go into a conveyor belt where all the leaves are blown off. We compost the leaves, and the olives go into the mill where they are washed. The oil and water are separated from the skins to make Olio Nuovo. The first oil from the olive. Oil is stored in large tanks and bottled on demand. Bottles are green to prevent light from getting to the oil, and then a machine labels them with Rossi Olive Oil. It’s a lot more complicated than my brief description, but you get the idea. If I really got into production, your eyes would glaze over.”
“I think it’s fascinating to see how it all gets made. I love learning new things.” I glance over at his profile.
“Maybe on a day I’m not so swamped with meetings, I can show you the bottling facility.”
“Thank you, I’d love to see it.” I marvel at the trees in the orchard below us. “That’s a lot of trees to handpick. Nina kind of explained the difference between extra virgin and regular olive oil, but you can definitely tell by the taste.”
“Extra virgin, the highest-quality oil, is produced without any chemicals in a cold press and has the lowest acidity levels. Virgin, the next best, also unrefined but has a slightly higher acidic level than extra virgin. Then there’s refined, a cheaper, commonplace oil with higher acidity, and lastly pure, a blend of extra virgin and refined olive oil with the highest acidity.”
“I feel like I should be taking notes.”
He looks over at me and his lips curve, making my heart thrum unevenly. He’s so attractive, and he doesn’t even try. “Sí, there will be a quiz at the end of the tour.”
“I’d ace it.” I crack my knuckles.
He gives me a dubious look and I laugh. “Okay, probably not.”
“I’m happy you’re showing interest. I’m kind of a nerd when it comes to olives. It’s my passion.” His eyes sparkle and my blood hums in response to his enthusiasm. “On another day, I’ll take you to the press and let you taste fresh-pressed olives. It’s otherworldly.”
“I’d really enjoy that.”
“I’m happy you want to learn.” He bumps his shoulder with mine.
I swallow past the rumbling nerves his touch alighted. I clear my throat and take in the picturesque landscape. “Is it true you’re not supposed to eat an olive right off the tree?”
“Sí, they are very bitter. You have to cure them first.” He smiles lazily at me.
“You were hoping I’d have bitten into one, weren’t you?”
“Perhaps when I first met you.” He chuckles.
“Hey,” I cry in mock protest, elbowing his side.
“Just teasing you. I save those moments of pleasure for my sworn enemies.”
“I’m not a sworn enemy?”
“No, Summer,” he says, tucking a lock of wayward hair behind my ear. I freeze, my lunch doing flip-flops in my stomach. “Non potrei mai odiarti.”
I swallow past the nervous ball of energy and lose myself in his grayish-green eyes flecked with gold. “I don’t know what that means.”
Lorenzo leans in, sucking the breath right from my lungs. He’s so close that if I lifted my chin, my mouth would meet his. His words whisper over my lips like soft fluttering butterfly wings, our breaths mingling. “Non potrei mai odiarti…I could never hate you.”
His cellphone rings, halting the magical spell he’s put me under. He groans and sits back, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Sí…”
Was Lorenzo going to kiss me? Did I want him to? I take in his profile while he talks on the phone. He has the classic straight Roman nose and a strong jawline. There’s a faint scar on his upper lip, and his silky dark hair needs a fresh cut. The wind lifts his hair and I practically have to sit on my hands so I don’t twine my fingers through it. The beautiful cadence of his accent soothes my nerves. Hell yes, I want Lorenzo Rossi to kiss me. He puts his phone away and stands up, offering me his hand.
“Mi dispiace, Summer. I’m sorry, I have to take you back. A supplier showed up for an impromptu meeting and she’s waiting for me. Sometime this week, I’ll clear some time in my schedule and give you a tour of the mill where we press the olives.”
“Of course, no problem.” I place my hand in his, and he helps me up off the wall. He pauses and I think maybe he’ll pull me into his chest and kiss me senseless. Yes, please. But instead, he smiles and walks me to the cart. We drive the short distance back to the café. “Arrivederci, Ren.”
“A presto, Summer.” He waves and pulls away, heading in the direction of the corporate offices.
The wind whips around my sundress while I finger the gold horn around my neck. Indeed, Fiore was right about Nonna Rossi giving me the necklace. My heart might need protection from Lorenzo Rossi.