Chapter 8 #2
"Hey," Akhil defended himself with a faint smirk. "I had full control of the vehicle."
"Right, chief," Gia chuckled, rolling her eyes. She turned to Shruti. "Chef Matteo is preparing fresh pasta for dinner tonight, but he mentioned that you expressed interest in learning how to make authentic Italian gnocchi and tagliatelle from scratch?"
Shruti’s eyes lit up instantly. "Really?! Chef Matteo will teach me?!"
"He would be honored!" Gia smiled. "He set up a cooking station on the shaded outdoor patio near the kitchen. Everything is ready."
"I'll join," Akhil spoke up unexpectedly, unbuttoning the cuffs of his white linen shirt and rolling them up to his elbows.
Shruti turned to look at him in absolute shock. "You? Cook? Akhil Raheja, the man who eats black coffee and protein powder, is going to make fresh pasta?"
"I lived in Italy for three years when I opened my first boutique hotel in Milan, Miss Malhotra," Akhil replied smoothly, a dangerous, confident smirk playing on his lips. "I know my way around an Italian kitchen far better than you think."
"Is that a challenge, Mr. Dictator?" Shruti grinned, raising an eyebrow.
"It's a promise, Shorty," Akhil murmured, stepping past her towards the kitchen patio.
Ten minutes later, Shruti and Akhil were standing side-by-side at a long, rustic wooden table set under a pergola covered in blooming grapevines.
Chef Matteo, a plump, cheerful Italian man in his fifties wearing a flour-dusted apron, had laid out wooden boards, rolling pins, bags of fine Italian semolina flour, fresh farm eggs, and extra virgin olive oil.
"Bene! Welcome, Signorina Shruti, Signor Akhil!" Chef Matteo spoke warmly in broken English. "Today, we make traditional tagliatelle! Simple, fresh, pure!"
Chef Matteo demonstrated the process with practiced ease, pouring a mound of flour onto the wooden board, creating a well in the center, cracking fresh eggs into the middle, and gently whisking them with a fork before kneading the dough into a smooth, golden ball.
"Now, your turn!" Chef Matteo cheered, stepping back to let them work.
Shruti tied a white linen apron around her waist and enthusiastically poured her flour onto her wooden board. She created her well, cracked her eggs, and began whisking.
Beside her, Akhil moved with calm, surprising efficiency. He poured his flour, cracked his eggs with one hand, and began kneading his dough with strong, practiced movements.
Shruti looked over at his board, then looked down at her own messy, sticky ball of dough that was currently clinging stubbornly to her fingers.
"How is your dough already smooth?!" Shruti complained, pointing a flour-covered finger at his board. "Did you cheat?!"
Akhil looked over at her messy station, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face. "It's called technique, Shorty. You're adding too much egg liquid too fast without incorporating the flour edges."
"I know what I'm doing!" Shruti huffed, trying to scrape the sticky dough off her hands.
"Clearly," Akhil teased, stepping closer to her side of the table. "Here, let me see."
Before she could protest, Akhil stepped behind her again, taking a handful of dry semolina flour from the bowl and sprinkling it gently over her sticky hands and dough board.
"Now knead it firmly," Akhil instructed softly, his voice right beside her ear. "Use the heel of your palm, like this."
He placed his broad, flour-dusted hands over hers, guiding her palms as they pressed firmly into the golden dough, stretching and folding it rhythmically against the wooden board.
Shruti’s hands moved under his guidance, the sticky mess quickly turning into a smooth, elastic ball of fresh pasta dough.
"See?" Akhil murmured, his breath brushing against her hair. "Told you."
Shruti looked at her smooth dough, then looked sideways at his handsome, smirk-filled face sitting just inches from hers.
A sudden, uncontrollable urge for revenge bubbled up inside her mischievous heart.
While Akhil was focused on inspecting the dough texture, Shruti secretly reached her hand into the bowl of white semolina flour, scooping up a generous palmful.
"You know, Akhil," Shruti spoke innocently, turning her face to look at him. "You really do have an answer for everything."
"It's a gift, " Akhil started.
'SMACK!'
Shruti slammed her flour-covered hand directly onto Akhil’s right cheek, leaving a massive, bright white palm print across his handsome face and dark beard stubble.
Akhil froze completely.
Beside them, Chef Matteo let out a loud gasp, his jaw dropping in absolute terror at the sight of someone slapping flour onto the face of the billionaire resort owner.
Shruti burst into a fit of giggles, backing away from the table with her hands held up. "Oops! My hand slipped, Mr. Dictator!"
Akhil slowly blinked, wiping a speck of flour from his eyelid. He looked down at his flour-stained cheek, then slowly looked up at Shruti, his dark eyes narrowing into a dangerous, predatory glint.
"Your hand slipped?" Akhil spoke, his voice dangerously calm, though a dark, amused smile twitched at the corner of his lips.
"It was an accident, I swear!" Shruti wheezed through her laughter, taking two steps backward towards the garden lawn.
"Is that so?" Akhil murmured smoothly.
Without breaking eye contact, Akhil reached down and grabbed a full cup of white flour from the wooden bowl.
Shruti’s eyes widened in realization. "Akhil... don't you dare! You are a respectable corporate executive, "
"All corporate rules are officially suspended, Miss Malhotra," Akhil declared.
"Run!" Shruti shrieked playfully, turning on her heels and sprinting out into the sunny garden courtyard.
"Get back here, Shorty!" Akhil laughed, chasing right after her.
For the next ten minutes, the quiet, luxurious estate of Villa Raheja echoed with loud, joyful laughter and screaming as the billionaire hero and the fiery travel journalist engaged in a full-blown flour war across the manicured garden lawn.
Shruti ducked behind marble statues, hid behind blooming rose bushes, and threw handfuls of flour whenever he got close. But Akhil was faster and taller. He cornered her near the stone garden fountain, catching her around the waist from behind.
"Got you!" Akhil declared triumphantly.
"No! Mercy!" Shruti laughed, thrashing playfully in his grip.
Akhil didn't hesitate. He rubbed his flour-dusted cheek directly against her cheek, smearing the white powder all over her golden face and dark hair until both of them were completely covered in flour from head to toe.
"Akhil! You monster!" Shruti squealed, laughing so hard tears streamed down her cheeks as she turned around in his arms, playfully hitting his chest with her floury fists.
Akhil held her firmly by her waist, his deep, rich laughter booming across the garden, filling the sunny afternoon air with unadulterated joy.
Chef Matteo and Gia stood on the terrace balcony, watching the two of them covered in flour, laughing like children on the lawn. Gia shook her head with a warm, knowing smile, taking a quick picture of them on her phone.
As their heavy laughter slowly settled into soft gasps, Shruti rested her flour-dusted hands against Akhil’s broad chest. She looked up at his face, taking in his flour-smeared jaw, his messy dark hair, and the dark, breathtaking warmth in his eyes.
"You look ridiculous," Shruti giggled softly, wiping a speck of flour off his nose with her thumb.
"Look who's talking," Akhil murmured, his hands resting gently on her hips. "You look like a white ghost, Shorty."
They stared at each other under the bright Italian sun, their breathing synchronized, their hearts beating in tandem. The silly flour fight faded away, leaving behind a deep, stirring intimacy that made the air between them feel warm and sweet.
***
By eight o'clock in the evening, the sun had completely set over Lake Como, giving way to a clear, starry night sky.
Shruti stood on the private stone dock near the boathouse.
She had showered, washed the flour out of her hair, and changed into an elegant, simple outfit, a floor-length, dusty-rose cotton maxi dress with delicate spaghetti straps and a soft cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders.
Her dark hair fell in damp, fragrant waves down her back.
In her hand, she held a glass of chilled Italian white wine.
The lake was completely dark and quiet, reflecting the twinkling golden lights of Bellagio village across the water like fallen stars. A gentle, cool breeze blew across the water, making the wooden boat gently bump against the padded dock bumpers.
Soft, heavy footsteps sounded behind her on the wooden planks.
Akhil stepped onto the dock. He had showered as well, wearing a soft navy-blue crewneck sweater, dark trousers, and holding a glass of scotch. He walked over to stand right beside her at the edge of the dock, looking out at the dark, tranquil lake.
"Quiet night," Akhil spoke softly, breaking the peaceful silence.