Chapter 4
Chloe
La Cucina di Rosa smells of heat and intent, of a kitchen awake before service, all purpose and restraint.
Ovens hum. Knives knock against boards in steady, unshowy rhythms. Someone swears loudly, apologises, then swears again when a crate of tomatoes nearly commits suicide off a prep table.
I step fully inside and pause, notebook tucked under my arm, taking it all in. This is the part diners never see. No charm. No plating flourishes. Just people getting ready to be judged.
“Chloe.”
Tom’s voice cuts through the noise without effort. Not loud. Certain. This is his domain and he knows he is in charge.
He’s already in chef's whites, sleeves rolled up, short dark hair neat in a way that suggests he does not own a hairdryer and has never once worried about it. He looks settled. Rooted. Like this room would sulk if he left.
His gaze travels with purpose. Not lingering. Not careless. Just thorough.
“You’re early,” he says.
“I thought I'll arrive before service starts,” I reply. “It gives me time to warm up.”
His mouth twitches. “Come in properly. You’re blocking a walkway.”
I move further into the kitchen and feel the shift immediately. This is not the place to hide behind my notebook. I am in the battle zone.
Tom gestures towards an empty prep table. “Right. Before we start, we need to be clear about what today looks like.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I was hoping for a tour and a free lunch.”
“You’ll get fed later,” he says. “You’re here to assess the restaurant,” he continues plainly. No defensiveness. No apology. “I understand that. I’m not pretending otherwise.”
That lands. Unexpectedly.
“But you’re not doing it from a corner table with a notebook and a glass of wine,” he goes on. “You’re doing it here. With me. You see prep, service, clean down. You see how decisions get made, not just how they land on a plate.”
I glance around again. The coordination. The quiet intensity. “So full access.”
“Within reason,” he says. “You watch. You ask questions. You don’t interfere. And when you eat later, you do it with context.”
“And what do you get out of this arrangement?” I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Accuracy.”
Not praise. Not redemption. Accuracy. Interesting.
“All right,” I say. “That’s reasonable.”
“Good,” he says, then his gaze drops in a way that is noticeably less philosophical. “Which brings us to a practical issue.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Health and safety.”
“Yes,” he replies, already reaching for a hook. “You can’t be in here dressed like that.”
I look down at myself. Black yoga pants. Soft. Forgiving. Built for long days. A loose T shirt that says NOTHING CLEVER, which feels slightly confrontational in context.
“I’m dressed for observing,” I say.
“You’re dressed for stretching,” he says. “This is a working kitchen.”
“I’m not juggling knives.”
“You’re in the blast radius of people who are.”
He lifts a spare chef’s jacket and holds it up between us. Narrow shoulders. Straight cut. Buttons placed by someone with a great deal of faith.
I study it. Then look back at him.
“There is no version of reality,” I say calmly, “where that closes over my boobs.”
The kitchen does not go silent, but it does slow. A knife pauses mid chop. Someone at the sink develops a sudden fascination with the wall.
Tom freezes, jacket still raised. His eyes flick to my chest and away again like they’ve brushed something dangerous.
I tilt my head. “You all right there?”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly. “It’s just… I wasn’t… that’s not…”
He trails off, jaw working like he’s trying to chew his way out of the sentence.
I glance meaningfully at the jacket. Then back at his face. “You run a kitchen. You massage chicken breasts for a living. But the mere mention of mine has you short-circuiting.”
A snort escapes from somewhere behind us. Tom closes his eyes for half a second, like a man counting to ten and failing at three.
“That is not the same thing,” he says, mortified and defensive in equal measure.
“Oh,” I say lightly. “Explain the difference. I’m fascinated.”
He splutters. Actually splutters. “I am not explaining breasts to you in my kitchen.”
“Pity,” I say. “I was hoping for a lecture. Diagrams, maybe.”
His ears are fully red now. He lowers the jacket slightly, then realises that looks worse and raises it again, which somehow makes the whole thing more tragic.
“I was just trying to make sure you were safe,” he says. “That’s it.”
“Mm,” I hum. “Well, if you force me into this one, I’m not sure anyone will be safe given that I will flash the whole kitchen brigade.”
Another laugh is smothered behind a chopping board. Tom shoots a glare in that direction. “Focus.”
I lean in a fraction, lowering my voice conspiratorially. “You do realise that if you keep going this red, I’m going to assume you’ve never had to talk to a woman with a body before.”
“That is wildly inaccurate,” he says, affronted.
“Is it?”
Before he can respond, a woman steps neatly into the space beside us, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Dark hair pulled back, sharp eyes, calm expression. She takes in the scene in one glance. The frozen jacket. Tom’s colouring. My expression.
Her mouth twitches.
“Chef,” she says pleasantly. “You want to put that down before you drop it.”
Tom looks at her like she’s thrown him a rope. “Yes. Thank you.”
She turns to me. “You’re Chloe.”
“I am.”
She nods once. “Angela. Sous chef. And before anyone else embarrasses themselves further, you want this.”
She holds a brown, simple apron out to me. Longer. Wider. Suitable for plus size bodies. Clearly sourced by someone with common sense.
I take it gratefully. “You are my heroine.”
Angela smiles. “I get that a lot.”
Tom exhales like he’s been released from captivity. “Yes. Apron. Good thinking.”
“You’re welcome,” Angela chuckles.
I tie the apron around my waist, deliberately slow. Tom very pointedly looks at the prep table.
“There,” I say. “Safe. Covered. Still tragically myself.”
Angela steps back, eyes flicking between us with open amusement. “Try not to scare him,” she says to me.
“I’m not trying,” I reply. “It’s a natural talent.”
Tom groans. “Where is the respect for me?”
I meet his gaze, smile widening just a touch. “You’re the one who blushed.”
“I did not blush.”
Angela raises an eyebrow. “Chef.”
He sighs. “I may have… coloured slightly.”
“Like a tomato,” I say.
He shoots me a look. “Careful.”
“Oh,” I reply, entirely unfazed. “I am.”
Angela shakes her head, still smiling, and moves back to her station. As she goes, she mutters just loudly enough, “This is better than the Saturday rush.”
Tom straightens, finally regaining some dignity. “Right. Orientation. Before you say anything else.”
“Too late,” I say.
He points a finger at me. “One more teasing and I’m assigning you to stand by the dishwashers.”
I consider it. “Tempting. But no.”
His mouth twitches despite himself.
The jacket is abandoned on the hook. The apron stays. The air between us still feels tight, charged, and faintly ridiculous.
And for reasons I absolutely refuse to examine, I am enjoying every second of it.
There is a natural lull after the jacket incident. Not awkward exactly. More like the kitchen collectively deciding to pretend it never happened while filing it away for future entertainment.
Time slides. Not hours. Just enough for Tom to walk me through the space properly.
He introduces me to Paolo, who runs hot section with the quiet authority of someone who has burned himself enough times to stop swearing about it.
There are two apprentices, Sam and Nisha, both young, sharp eyed, and vibrating slightly with nerves and caffeine.
His head waiter, Luca, appears long enough to shake my hand, assess me like a complicated booking request, and disappear again with the air of a man who knows exactly where everything is and intends to keep it that way.
By the time the tour ends, the kitchen has accepted me as furniture. Mobile furniture, but still.
Tom stops at a stainless steel workstation tucked slightly out of the main traffic flow. A calm pocket in the noise. Ingredients are already laid out with military neatness. Tomatoes. Garlic. Basil. Olive oil. Salt. Nothing fancy.
“All right,” he says, planting his hands on the counter. “This is where you stand.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this a demotion or a promotion.”
“This,” he says patiently, “is where you stop hovering and start paying attention.”
“I have been paying attention.”
“You’ve been narrating silently,” he replies. “There’s a difference.”
I feel seen and I am not sure if this is a good thing.
I step closer, close enough to smell the tomatoes properly. Sweet, warm, almost floral.
“And what,” I ask, “are we making here.”
He looks at me sideways. “You know exactly what we’re making.”
“Ah,” I say. “The infamous watery menace.”
He huffs a laugh despite himself. “You can’t help yourself.”
“You invited me,” I point out. “I assume you knew the risks.”
“I invited you to observe,” he says. “Not to antagonise.”
“Those are adjacent skills,” I reply.
He turns fully towards me now, expression intent rather than annoyed. “This is my Nonna’s sauce.”
“I know.”
“I make it the way she taught me.”
“I know.”
“And I am not changing it for trends, critics, or people who eat four restaurants in one afternoon.”
There it is. The line in the sand. I meet his gaze, steady.
“I didn’t ask you to,” I say.
He pauses, thrown slightly by that. “No?”
“No,” I repeat. “Now show me. I am ready to be corrected.”
He watches me for a second, assessing whether I’m being sincere or clever. Eventually, he nods.
“Good,” he says. “Then watch.”
He reaches for the tomatoes, movements economical, practiced. He doesn’t over explain. He doesn’t perform. He just works, talking as he goes like this is something he has done a thousand times and never stopped caring about.
“People think sauce is about intensity,” he says. “Big flavours. Reduction. Forcing it. It’s not.”