Chapter 20
venti
As night fell, Alessio and Francesca met in the kitchen. Both were red-faced and bare-limbed on account of the heat, and both still buoyed by the sexual tension which had pervaded their afternoon.
For now, it was consolation enough for Alessio to know that she also desired him. How the future would pan out, he wasn’t sure. The situation was complicated to say the least.
With mounds of flour on their benches measured from the bag using Francesca’s precious tazza della pasta – which Alessio now knew better than to comment on – she began her lecture on tinting and colouring the dough.
By their boards sat four small bowls, each holding a colouring ingredient that would take the egg dough from golden to striking: nero di seppia, for its ebony boldness; beetroot powder for warming pinks and burgundies; saffron threads for yellows and oranges, emulating edible sunshine; and spinach powder for earthy viridescence.
Alessio watched, jotting down on a notepad the quantities Francesca used for each.
He could feel his fingers gripping the pen with mounting frustration as she rattled off phrases like ‘just this much . . .’ and ‘you’ll know when .
. .’. He wanted precision. He needed to know the weight by gram.
Eyeballing it and ‘sensing the needs of the pasta dough’ just didn’t cut it for him.
Just ask her to weigh it. Get a ballpark idea that way . . .
But he did respect her process, so he shut up and did what he was told with a polite smile and genuine interest in the task. He’d coloured pasta before. Of course he had. But he’d never done it in the company of someone who paired the colours and accompanying flavours –
no matter how subtle the inflection – with the local landscape and its people.
‘The spinach gives a slight metallic hum; it echoes that of the seagrasses that grow tangled among the rocks by the water. The squid ink sings the same song as the Adriatic’s briny depths.
The beetroot is both sweet and savoury – just like the locals here in Impastino. Sweet one moment, then the next . . .’
Alessio noted it all down. He appreciated every raw morsel of pasta she fed him from her board, as well as the samples she cooked for comparison from the pot of salted boiling water. The flavour profiles changed, as did the colours.
Repeating the chorus of pasta-making doctrine on repeat the world over, he said, ‘Salty like the sea,’ and licked the pasta water off his fingers.
‘Salty like the Adriatic,’ she corrected, killing the gas under the pot. ‘Tesoro mio, I think we are done for the night.’ She pulled the ties of her apron loose, and gave it a shake over the wash trough.
‘Oh, no you don’t. Put that back on.’ He caught her arm and felt all the day’s heat, the kitchen’s warmth, and the simmering energy in her skin flow into him. ‘We are not done yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘I promised I’d teach you something tonight, and teach you something I shall.’
‘A man of his word.’
‘Always.’ Alessio reached for a plastic shopping bag he had brought into the kitchen and fanned it open. ‘Pop your little hand in there, Signorina.’ As the words left his mouth he wondered if perhaps his teasing tone was too much.
But Francesca practically sashayed across to him, her top teeth catching her bottom lip. Her voice dropped into something deeper. ‘What have you got in there, Signor Ranieri?’
He grinned but said nothing.
Her eyes scanned his face, never breaking contact as her hand dipped into the bag. She withdrew a bar of 70 per cent dark couverture chocolate and passed it to him. ‘We’re going to temper it?’
Alessio nodded, yet somehow, he couldn’t pry his gaze from her lips. ‘You’re going to do it. I’ll simply watch and guide you.’
‘Let’s do it, then.’ She rose on the balls of her feet so their eyes were level and then pulled his face towards hers with her free hand.
Adrenaline shot through him at feeling her so torturously close.
Then, he felt her cheek brush against his as she dropped a long delicate kiss against it.
Blood stockpiled in his groin, and he felt his resolve weakening.
He silently begged for her mouth to search for his.
Instead her hand trickled down his bare arm from shoulder tip to wrist. Was this a welcome?
An invitation in? Had she changed her mind?
Alessio suddenly felt her withdraw and slowly slink back a few steps. The air and space that opened up between them offered him the reality check his conscience had been seeking.
Just breathe . . .
‘I’ll prepare the bagnomaria,’ she said, half filling a shallow pot with water and setting it on the stove. ‘This bowl ok?’ She held up a -medium-sized aluminium bowl and he nodded, so she popped it on top of the pot.
Alessio checked himself with a deep breath and reached for a chopping board and a sharp knife. ‘Let’s cut this down, and we’ll need a confectioner’s thermometer.’
After chopping and shaving down the bar, Alessio watched as Francesca scraped half the chocolate into the bowl set over the simmering pot of water, then affixed the thermometer to the side.
‘Take it to 49 or 50 degrees . . . then off it goes . . .’
For the first time since his arrival, Alessio sensed Francesca was at a loss for words.
She simply followed his instructions without her usual playful quips or opinions.
Her hands were quieter too, devoid of their Italianate flair and wild gesturing.
Had she sensed something too? That intimate closeness .
. . the heat. The tingle of their shared touch.
Stay focused. Stay on task. The chocolate . . .
‘Do you have plans for Saturday night?’ she asked, turning her head so their eyes met over her shoulder.
‘No. Why?’
‘There’s a big falò – a bonfire, no? – down by the beach. It’s a summer tradition we organise in Impastino. The dates always change. It’s organised around the weather, more than anything.’
‘Yeah, I’m in.’
‘You will love it. Simona and Carlo will be there too.’ She turned her attention back to the chocolate, checking the thermometer before giving it a stir. ‘We have a barbeque. Drink beer and Spritz, and eat too much food.’
‘Do we need to bring anything?’
‘No, no. It is provided. We pay a small fee and the organisers cater. It’s wonderful. As long as people behave themselves.’
‘Behave themselves?’ How rowdy could Impastino possibly get?
‘Not for behaviour. Bad things don’t happen. I mean . . .’ She paused, and her right hand took to gesturing her lack of vocabulary. ‘You know. Behave.’ Her eyebrows lifted with the intonation of her voice.
‘Oh, that kind of behaviour.’
‘Eh, sì. It’s a night that new couples are formed, some are broken. People kiss. And situationships go too far.’ Her focus returned to the chocolate and she fiddled with the thermometer.
Situationships? Alessio kept a straight face at her adorable English, but the cold, hard reality of the situation sank in a little further.
What the hell is this? We’re pretending to be cousins for a pasta cooking challenge.
I sleep in your bed. In your apartment. We’re friends.
And friendly. But I am attracted to you and want to do more than just kiss you.
And I know you want the same. But instead we’ll just make pasta and knead our sexual frustrations away? Hmmm.
‘So you’ll come?’ She took a folded tea towel for protection from the heat and lifted the bowl off the top of the pot. ‘Fifty degrees. Exactly.’ Setting it down on the bench she continued to stir, dropping in the remaining chocolate shards.
‘Absolutely. Besides keeping up appearances and all, it sounds like a laugh.’
Francesca dipped the tip of her middle finger into the smooth melted chocolate. She brought it to her lips and licked it off in one sensual movement. ‘Mmm. Buono.’
And before it could register properly, before it could sharpen in his consciousness, she dipped it in again and offered him her finger with a loaded smile. ‘Would you like to try?’
His eyes flicked between the chocolate and her mischievous eyes, and he realised she’d caught him again. But this time, he pressed forward, determined to test the waters. ‘If I do, will you judge me?’
With the tip of her tongue now grazing the tops of her teeth, she slowly, with calculated, suggestive timing, shook her head. ‘No, no.’
That throbbing thrum of want in Alessio’s groin reignited as he leaned forward, catching her chocolate-dipped finger between his lips.
The cacao.
Sugar.
A hint of Madagascan vanilla.
Her skin . . .
Their eyes locked and he couldn’t help but smile coyly into the moment.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. And I am like a moth to a flame.
‘Buono?’ Her eyes sparkled, and Alessio was under her spell.
You want a situationship? I’ll give you a situationship . . .
Without dropping her gaze, he let his tongue catch the underside of her finger, gradually caressing its way up its length to the tip. There, he gave it three rhythmic flicks with his tongue; gentle enough to match her energy, yet brazen enough to move the goalpost.
And judging by the way her eyes closed in response, her chest rising under her hitched breath, he knew he had her. Alessio let go of her hand, and watched her eyes spring open. ‘Perfectly melted. Drop it to twenty-nine degrees, then put it back on the heat.’
A momentary blankness filled her expression, as if she had to get her bearings. Then with a nod, Francesca bent to assess the thermometer again. ‘Sì, Chef.’
As he turned away, Alessio glimpsed her giving a little stolen shake of the head, and his insides churned.
This is a game I can play too . . .