Chapter 21
ventuno
The week rolled on and the lessons in pasta continued, and intensified.
Tuesday evening, Francesca decided on a fazzoletti and lasagne masterclass, and Alessio took things up a notch tutoring her with brandy and flambé.
Wednesday was all about sharp-edged crimping, cutting and stamping, with freshly sharpened tools.
It paired perfectly with Alessio’s deboning of a chicken.
Thursday’s session was dedicated to the inimitable orecchiette tradition, native to the region.
Alessio chose to offer a crash course on knife skills.
Friday was earmarked to improve Alessio’s knowledge of filled pasta, given the dough-filled-ravioli fiasco.
With just two weeks until the first round of the festa, they were working hard to cover all bases.
As their Secret Life of Pasta sessions gathered pace, so did their irrefutable sexual tension, rising and falling as if with the tides of the Adriatic.
While they had been able to contain whatever it was that was simmering between them – salty and bubbling, like the pots of water which boiled on the stove – Francesca knew that the bonfire would test them both.
And yet, she was ravenous to consume whatever Saturday evening dished up.
Because now, she was starving.
Elena caught Francesca’s arm as she bolted through the trattoria during the busy Saturday dinner service.
‘Be careful.’ Elena’s piercingly dark eyes bored into Francesca’s.
‘Of what?’
‘You know of what. The bonfire.’ She wiped her hands clean on her apron.
Francesca shrugged herself free. ‘Just worry about service, Mamma.’
‘I’m your mother, it’s my job to worry about you and what you do.’
Maria guffawed from within the kitchen, the force of which reached both women in the dining room.
Francesca sighed and lowered her voice. ‘We are going as cousins. That’s it. Nothing can happen. And it won’t. He’s a guest. Remember?’
‘I remember. Just make sure you do.’
Alessio met Francesca by the fountain at nine as they had arranged. The space between her stomach and lungs tightened a little when she saw him there. It didn’t help that his aftershave wafted towards her as she crossed the piazza.
He wore a relaxed pair of tan linen shorts, his brown leather scuffs and a long-sleeved white linen shirt which he had rolled to his forearms. His skin had soaked up the Mediterranean sun over the past couple of weeks, leaving him practically glowing from within.
Ufffa! That’s not going to help me tonight.
Francesca’s eyes trickled over the top three buttons he had left undone, exposing the lines of his upper chest. She forced herself to swallow down the first stirrings of desire.
The wind caught the fringe of her sleeveless wine-red sundress, and she laughed, trying to flatten it as she made her way across to him. ‘Sorry! You did not ask for the peep show!’
Alessio smiled and caught her in his arms, leaning in for the double-cheek kisses they always shared. ‘Didn’t see a thing. Cross my heart.’
Completely normal. That was fine. Nothing untoward there.
‘Guarda,’ Francesca said in a low voice. ‘Simona knows we aren’t cousins.’
Alessio stilled. ‘What? I haven’t sai—’
‘No, no. Not you! She guessed. And how could she not? She’s my oldest friend in Impastino.’
‘What does this mean, then?’
‘We’ve only exchanged a few messages, but she will keep our secret. She only asks that we tell Carlo out of respect.’
‘But he’s the competition.’
Francesca smiled. ‘Carlo is a wonderful man, but only così-così in the kitchen. He has competed for eight years, and has never moved past the prima tappa. I don’t think he’s a challenge for you. But in honouring the relationship I have with him—’
‘Sure. I get it. They’re coming tonight?’
‘Sì.’
‘Well, if we find a quiet space, let’s tell him together. What do you think?’
Francesca expelled the last of the air in her lungs. ‘Grazie.’
They made their way down to the waterfront, the music and laughter from the bonfire party greeting them before they reached it.
The beach, which by day was lined with deckchairs and striped umbrellas, was now littered with people. The crowd swarmed around the central fire, talking and dancing, eating and drinking. The bonfire’s flames rose in smoky tendrils towards the ink-black sky.
‘It would be easy to lose each other here,’ Alessio called out over the thumping bass of the music.
‘Lose me, or lose yourself?’ she quipped. ‘Let’s eat, before you get lost,’ she added, gesturing to the barbeque area further ahead. She passed him a food token she had stashed in her bra so she wouldn’t have to bring a bag, and together they made their way over.
After enjoying their fill of orecchiette with zucchini, goat roasted over coals, garlicky potatoes and a spicy tomato salad, they were sated, and made their way to the water’s edge.
The natural curve of the shore allowed them to watch on as much of Impastino partied around them.
‘Look who’s here . . .’ Francesca’s chin flicked in the direction of the cliff-face stairs. Elio and his Da Martino crew had arrived, along with Sebastiano and some of the staff from Lu Ientu. All shirtless, all ripped, and all emanating egocentric vibes.
They made their way down to the sand, and their mere presence drew most of the crowd’s attention. A number of young women gravitated to Elio’s side, giggling and vivaciously flirty.
‘Gotta give it to them, they know how to hold their own,’ Alessio commented.
‘Ughh!’ Her eyes narrowed on the fire-silhouetted Elio. ‘It’s nearly ten. They’re here for the volleyball competition. Anything they have the opportunity to win, basically.’
Right on cue the men were corralled by some of the others who had already gathered at the party, and they all made their way further up the beach.
‘Where are they going?’
Francesca gestured along the shore. ‘There’s a floodlight over the pier. They twist it around to the sand where they set up the net so they can see better.’
‘Did you want to . . .?’
‘No, no!’ She tensed beside him. ‘Not at all.’ Francesca pivoted a little to face him and asked, ‘What do you think? Stronzi aside.’
‘It’s exactly how I pictured it. Lively. Fun. Delightful . . . like the company.’ His eyes locked with hers, reflecting the burnished flickering flames of the falò. ‘Stunningly beautiful.’
That was all it took to shift the energy between them.
‘Do you mean that?’ Her cheeks warmed against the cool night’s breeze off the water.
‘You know I do.’ He hesitated a moment, and Francesca watched his lips quiver. ‘And if you didn’t know, let me make it clear.’ He dropped his lips close to her ear. ‘You are . . . perfetta.’
‘Aless—’ She tried to pull away, but he reached out and took her by the wrist.
‘You are. In every way.’
Now, there was no mistaking it. Standing there in the sand, side by side, his eyes traced desire-filled lines over her lips. Alessio dipped lower again and all Francesca wanted in the moment was to concede and welcome the kiss. To let him in. To devour him.
But the tug of reason stayed her hand.
No. Don’t. You can’t. Too much relies on this charade. It can wait. It has to. ?Papà’s legacy is counting on it.
She couldn’t hide the defeat in her words as she gave them voice. ‘We can’t. We just can’t.’
He pressed his forehead to her temple and she felt his slow, disappointed exhalation.
‘I know,’ he said in a low voice.
Suddenly, feeling her fight-or-flight response engage, Francesca took a step back.
Perhaps Alessio had seen her shiver, because he undid his shirt, slipped it off and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Its effect was immediate. Francesca felt warm cocooning safety under the linen, and again caught the crisp freshness of his aftershave.
‘Grazie,’ she said, wrapping her arms around herself. But what she hadn’t expected was the way he drew her close to his chest and put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing her sweetly to keep warm. From the outside, it looked protective.
But what was happening under the cover of Alessio’s shirt was anything but innocent.
Francesca had gone from shivering to gripped by heat. It radiated from Alessio’s naked chest, and Francesca let her fingers trace a line from his collarbone past his pecs, down his torso to the waistband of his shorts.
She could feel his breathing deepen and her fingers rose again, this time meeting his chef’s knife tattoo, and she pressed a moist-lipped kiss against it.
Alessio’s breath caught. ‘Francesca . . . please . . . you said we shouldn’t . . .’
‘I know what I said. But no one can see this.’
His grip on her shoulders tightened, and she sensed he was bracing himself for whatever it was she would deliver next.
It was then that she felt it, pressing into the space just below her belly button. All his excitement and want for her. Her core ruptured with heat, a deeper desire than ever before for him to fill her. To complete her.
But all she could do there on the beach, hidden under the shadows of the night, was use her hands. So she did.
She drew those red nails across his nipples, and she heard him moan into her mop of curls.
Then, Francesca counted down each of his ribs until she reached the fine dusting of hair at his waistband.
Gently, with calculated pressure, she allowed her palm to briefly graze the front of his shorts. He was there. All of him.
Alessio held her tighter and whispered, ‘What are you doing? Today you stopped—’
‘Is this ok?’
He paused for a beat before nodding into her neck, and she felt him press himself against her hand.
He needs this too.
With a finger dipped behind the waistband of his shorts against the skin of his groin, she asked, ‘Can I . . .?’
He swallowed. ‘But I want to feel you first.’