Chapter 3
For the next week, I forcibly shake myself into a new routine—like mulching over weathered crops to make room for whatever new ones need to come up.
Being in a kitchen where I’m not in charge isn’t as strange as I would have thought; I did it for years, and I can do it again.
I might still be numb from my entire life imploding, but on the plus side, there’s something satisfying about showing up for work and being treated like an automaton.
Gia hasn’t let me touch anything related to pasta dough yet, but I’m glad, since in any new kitchen it’s always necessary to start with grunt work.
And I’m damn good at passing whatever tests are placed in front of me.
I prep ingredients, grab supplies, scrub down the kitchen, and even buy her cigarettes once when she runs out.
Being reliable for Gia is the only thing I’m focused on.
I don’t need to find myself on an Italian adventure of self-reflection, or whatever bullshit John tried to lob at me.
I want to get to a place where I actually learn something about my craft from an elderly expert (fine, yes, after tasting her pasta I can confirm she’s as absurdly good as Anita said).
I’m going to focus on that for the rest of the summer until my restaurant is fixed. This is all I need.
In the mornings I sit on my balcony, read food books I’ve wanted to catch up on, and drink tea (since I’m guessing drinking tea in espresso country would get me the side-eye at any café). From noon until around eleven at night, I’m in the restaurant.
And okay, sometimes I’m in before noon too. It doesn’t hurt to keep things spotless in a kitchen.
Which is how I find myself at 11:30 a.m. standing on a ladder, rocking out to Olivia Rodrigo’s healthy dose of man angst while cleaning off the high shelves that store the giant bags of flour.
I’ve decided it’s necessary because dust and flour obviously look similar.
And I’d bet anything that Gia never actually has anyone clean these shelves off.
She’s probably had some lumbering delivery guys stacking these fifty-pound bags for decades, without ever looking at what’s accumulated.
So in the interest of being the kind of proactive, helpful chef that I am, I’m making good use of the dustpan and brush to clear away years of potential contaminants that have probably been infiltrating Gia’s perfect pasta.
The only thing I haven’t anticipated is someone touching me.
With my (stupid, I’m now realizing) noise-canceling headphones, I didn’t hear anyone come in, and the shock of a light touch on my ankle jolts me. I automatically grab at the most stable thing I can find, which, unfortunately, is a bag of flour that happens to not be particularly stable.
I crash onto the floor, followed swiftly by the giant bag of flour that explodes on contact, creating a cloud that expands into the air and lingers while I’m flat on my ass like a total idiot.
I take out my headphones and am immediately bombarded with an apology from a figure I can barely make out through the smoky hanging flour. Or at least I think it’s an apology, based on the tone and speed of his words.
“I don’t speak Italian,” I cough out.
I see him nod through the haze.
“Right, right, you’re Gia’s new chef, yeah?
I’m so sorry.” I know I haven’t met this man, because his accent is unfamiliar—he’s somehow both Italian but clearly a native English speaker.
“I was looking for Gia and you didn’t respond and I didn’t realize your headphones were so .
. . all-encompassing? You were sort of singing along and I didn’t want to startle you if you saw me, but now I’m realizing I startled you even more. ”
I wipe my face and look up. You’ve got to be kidding me.
I’m covered in flour, I got busted for screech-singing at work, my ass is probably going to have a bruise the size of a melon on it tomorrow, and the guy this all happened in front of is extremely good looking.
Let’s leave aside the fact that he’s jacked and seems to be so tall that he’s noticeably taller than me (which happens so rarely), but his oval face is curtained by the kind of dark, flowing devil-may-care hair that a nineties boybander would’ve killed for.
His jaw is lined with perfectly unperfect day-old scruff, and right above his upper lip is a small beauty mark I can’t tear my eyes from.
I think maybe now I’m staring?
Did I hit my head? Why am I noticing so much?
I see hot men all the time—I live in New York and I run a high-end restaurant, for crying out loud. So it’s surprising how much this guy is affecting me just by looking at me. It’s unsettling.
But maybe this is what happens after getting dumped and then having a moment away from my routine in a new country, on a new learning curve. I’m probably noticing all men more.
He, of course, isn’t contemplating anything about me other than how he’s going to get this bedraggled, flour-covered beanpole off the floor.
His brow is furrowed with concern, and it would be cute if it wasn’t aimed at my complete ineptitude, which I have a deep urge to explain is very unusual for me.
I ignore the throbbing pain of my side and try to stand up with as much dignity as I can muster. Or as much dignity a person can have while brushing off fifty pounds of flour surrounding them.
“It’s fine,” I say with a casual air that probably doesn’t fit how ridiculous I look. “I’m Kit Roth, by the way.”
I hold out my hand, and he takes it, still seeming suspicious that I might actually not be fine.
But my brain zeroes in on how much I feel his hand envelop mine, and the sensation sparks right into my veins.
My hands have always been stronger than people expect—calloused, burned, and scarred from years in the kitchen.
It makes most men grip hard. They always subconsciously have something to prove with a woman like me.
But his hands are as rough as mine on the surface, strong, but the grip is gentler.
It’s firm, but open. My body seems to absorb every place he’s touching me.
Our hands stay clasped for a beat too long. He’s watching me and I stare back, both momentarily transfixed. Maybe he’s watching because he’s concerned that the woman who fell off a ladder has a concussion, but I can’t stop myself from looking into this man’s dark eyes.
“I’m Nico Ruspoli. And, uh . . . I’ll help you clean this up,” he says, finally breaking eye contact as my pulse continues to boom inexplicably.
But I must be going completely insane, because I’m rooted to the floor while he’s moving again, grabbing a kitchen towel and then wiping off the flour I’ve gotten all over him.
Right. Cleaning up. Shit. Who the hell am I in this moment? It’s pathetic and extremely unlike me. Gia’s going to come in soon, and this definitely does not live up to the example I want to be setting.
I pull myself together and get the broom while Nico grabs a trash bag. We silently sweep up, and for a minute it seems fruitless—that cloud of flour still hangs in the air with every attempt to get it into the bag. But eventually we start making progress.
“How are you liking working for Gia?” Nico asks, once we’re nearing the end of the cleanup and our focus can stray enough to talk again.
“I’ve only been here a week,” I deflect.
“Meaning?”
“Oh . . .” Here I was thinking this was small talk and it didn’t matter. “I don’t like to pass judgment too early. She’s still testing me out. I’m a glorified kitchen scut at this point, so I’m happy to pay the dues.”
He nods, taking that in.
“You’re living in Matteo’s apartment?”
Well, I guess Gia wasn’t kidding about everyone knowing everyone else’s business.
“Yup,” I reply, realizing my reputation is probably preceding me all over town, but I know nothing about this guy. “Do you live in Manciano too?” I ask, trying to pry just enough that he won’t notice.
He’s wiping his hands off again, and it’s frustrating to be unwittingly jealous of a dish towel.
“No, I live outside town. Near Gia, actually. I never wanted to live inside these walls, you know?”
These people really seem to think this tiny town is some giant metropolis.
“Well, I haven’t ventured outside the walls yet, so I wouldn’t know. Have any advice for me?” I ask.
“Oh, you’ll love visiting all the farms and producers around here,” he says, his eyes on me again.
“I’ll love that, huh?” I quip with a smirk.
“I thought you were a chef?” he says, a small amused smile blooming. The look he’s giving me is pure—interested—delight.
Is he flirting? I can hardly tell what flirting might look like anymore.
Working in a kitchen makes me so used to everyone’s bluntness and teasing that I would barely register it.
I only talk to men to yell at them about things like whether an order is being fired.
The best part about being in a relationship was getting to be completely oblivious to any man’s interest.
But his eyes flicker to the curve of my mouth, and it’s a look that could stun an elephant. That slight movement has my heart pounding in my chest again. As though the silk of his look alone is worth more to my body than running a mile.
“I thought you were a . . .” I come up blank, all my mental energy working to keep my internal flutterings from showing on my exterior.
“Sorry, I have no retort to that,” I say, and his laugh is a burst that’s all exhale, surprised by the honesty but filled with joy.
It puts me at ease even as my pulse still races.
“I actually have no idea who you are, Nico Ruspoli.”
I’m drawn in to the way his lips rise, amused, curious. The way his smile goes the whole distance to those eyes that are watching me so pointedly.
But before he can say anything else, we’re interrupted. “He’s my grandson-in-law,” Gia grunts, “and he’s here to bother me and distract me from actually getting work done.” She blusters into the room and puts down a bag of herbs that look like they came straight from her garden.
Oh, shit.
Grandson-in-law.
This must be the husband of one of Anita’s many cousins.
And that instantly halts any thoughts of flirtation, like one of those steel security gates you noisily pull over a shop to close up at night.
I might be a lot of bad things, but home-wrecker isn’t one of them.
Damn Europeans and their frequent disinterest in wedding rings—that always throws me.
Whatever vibe I must’ve been getting from him clearly only had to do with my lonely, horny brain and nothing from him.
So much for having any game post-John whatsoever.
And as if to put the point on it finely, Nico only has eyes for Gia now, leaning over her table and smiling in her space while she bustles, getting organized.
“I wanted to swing by to tell you about the importer I met who wants to see my filter. Someone gave him my info, and he stopped by the frantoio. It was a really interesting conversation, and I wanted your advice.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow. Right now I’m cooking,” she says, and she swats at him, although it seems to come from a well of affection rather than annoyance.
He salutes her like a private taking instructions from his general and then turns back to me. “It was really nice to meet you, Kit Roth,” he says, my name slow and deliberate. “I hope I see you around—and I promise I won’t tell Gia about the bag of flour we destroyed.”
With a wink he walks out, and I barely notice as Gia rolls her eyes, because I’m trying so hard to be the normal version of myself that should be rolling my eyes too.