Chapter 30
Elisa
Good thing I decided to cook to distract myself! Michael and I are candidates for the Palme d’Or for liars of the year. It took us half an hour to get from “Let’s pretend it didn’t happen” to making allusions, to physical contact which, I admit, I also encouraged.
I’m afraid I like Michael more than I want to admit. The worst is that I’m knowingly throwing fuel on the fire in the hopes that he’ll take this flirtation to the next level, because I don’t have the courage to make the first move myself.
Right now, Michael is behind me. We’re practically spooning, bent over the cutting board making—or, at least, attempting to make—the pici.
His hands, which until now were next to mine, move up my arms and stop around my shoulders, and a warm pressure on my neck triggers an internal shock.
“What are you doing?” I whisper breathlessly.
“Tasting you,” he replies.
“Do you like what you taste?”
His mouth continues, impertinent and brazen, up to my ear. “It’s to die for.”
We’ve taken the plunge. If I’d wanted to push him away, this would have been my chance. I turn to face him, my hands on his chest. “I thought the new rule was no touching,” I murmur against his lips.
“Rules are made to be broken,” he shoots back, brushing my lips with his. “Where did we leave off yesterday?”
“On the barrel.”
And just like yesterday, he lifts me up, but this time it’s onto the floured cutting board. “Let’s pick up where we left off.” He unclips my hair, letting it fall down my back. “You drive me crazy.”
We’re all over each other, ravenous, our flour-covered hands traveling everywhere. The straps of my dress fall down, revealing my breasts, while I wrap my legs around Michael’s waist and hook his T-shirt with my fingers to lift it.
Our goodwill agreement was short-lived. Only this time I have no intention of running off . . . on the contrary! I lean back until I’m almost lying down, pulling Michael on top of me, without any thought for the dough.
“The pici!” he pants.
“We can order pizza,” I say, imploring him not to stop kissing me, my hands gripping his hair to prevent him from moving more than a millimeter away from me.
He lifts my dress and grabs my buttocks firmly, his fingers already hooked on the edge of my panties; I’m busy fiddling with his belt buckle when the thud of the front door and the echo of lively chatter in the hall surprises us.
We freeze, looking into each other’s eyes with a flash of terror. “Did you hear that?” he asks me, petrified.
“Yeah. Are they here already?” I ask, recognizing Lapo’s and Margherita’s voices. “What time is it?”
“Seven,” he replies, checking the clock.
“They’re early!” I exclaim, looking around. “Shit.”
“Shit!”
I jump off the table, and we brush the flour off each other. “How do I look?”
“You should pull your hair back.”
“Your jeans, zip them.”
We clean ourselves up just in time for the merry gang to make their entrance.
“So, are you the chefs tonight?” asks Giada, followed by everyone else.
“Did you manage to make something edible, or did you spend the evening just working yourselves up?” jokes Carletto.
Cosimo approaches the table, from which he plucks one of the pici we steamrolled. “Judging by this, I’d say tonight we’re having nothing but bread. But it’s a pleasure to see Elisa has finally learned to dress herself as God intended.”
Michael and I exchange a sideways glance, as if to say, Just in time.
“Well, there’s dessert: We brought a ton of Buontalenti!” Lapo announces, waving the tub of gelato. “What can we do? Shall we help you set the table?”
“Sure,” I nod. “I’ll bake the bruschetta. You guys can set the table under the pergola.” Practical things—I have to concentrate on practical things to cool off.
While guests swarm around the kitchen with their respective tasks, Michael approaches me, touching his head to mine. “It’s just a setback,” he whispers in my ear. “I have every intention of finishing what we started.”
Someone call 9-1-1. There’s a fire!
We’re about to sit down at the table, Giada and Carletto hand in hand, Caroline with her perpetual annoyed look, Lapo showing off his repertoire of jokes and Margherita scolding him for the vulgar ones.
Cosimo and his partner Andres have brought each of us one of their personalized essences, and Michael and I end up accidentally finding ourselves next to each other.
Of course, this only fuels the tension from the kitchen.
Not to mention that tonight I have to keep an eye on the bunch of wild teenagers down at the annex . . .
We’re only missing Lucia and her companion, who are coming up the path.
“I thought we were eating at your place, not here at the villa. So, it’s an event! Good thing I wore my new dress,” she jokes. Her mysterious plus-one appears a few steps behind her . . .
No, it can’t be!
This must be a joke.
“Elmo?” I ask, unable to contain my shock and earning a kick in the shins from Giada, who is sitting across from me.
“I told you I wouldn’t be alone,” she replies with a serene smile. “Did you set an extra place?”
“Of, of course,” I stammer, still stunned.
Elmo Colli? What the hell is Lucia doing with Elmo Colli? Charity work?
“Sit down!” Giada trills with enthusiasm.
“There was a mix-up with the pici, but the bruschettoni are plentiful, there’s charcuterie for days, and we have crudités and dip with veggies from the garden.
And what we don’t have in food, we’ll make up for in wine.
” She welcomes them over by holding out two full glasses to them.
She gives me a big-sister look, and I down my entire glass of red in one gulp.
Food and alcohol liven up the conversation, and Cosimo and Andres hold court with updates.
“Let’s toast! We have an announcement to make,” exclaims Cosimo.
“Are you getting married?” asks Margherita, who, like a good Belvedere native, is always thinking about wedding rings.
“That’s coming, but not yet. On September 15, a selection of our perfumes is going on sale at Selfridges! In London!”
We all burst into applause. It is extremely rare for a person from Belvedere to venture over the county line—not to mention the Alps.
“How did you do it?” asks Giada.
“Pure luck. In April, a buyer from Selfridges was pickpocketed right in front of our store,” explains Andres.
“Lucky for you,” Carletto jokes.
“Not so much for her. In any case, we helped her, took her to file a complaint, and tried to make up for the loss of her brand-new Gucci tote with a gift of three of our fragrances.”
“Gangsters,” Michael taunts them. “You hired that pickpocket, didn’t you?”
“We had no idea who she was. She hadn’t told us what she did, and we thought she was just another English tourist. But the next day, she came back and introduced herself, telling us that the following month was the Paris Parfumeur, the largest international perfumery fair, where she and the warehouse managers decide what new products to bring to the shop.
She said if we had a stand, she’d do her best to convince her buyers, so . . .”
“And so we used all our savings,” Andres takes the floor.
“The cash we would have spent on a wedding reception, basically,” emphasizes Cosimo.
“You sound like you regret it,” his partner scolds him.
“Never! But yeah, it took us a long time to make that money . . . sorry. I’ll stop. Go on.”
“Well, we invested in everything we needed for the fair—the stand, the logistics, the samples, the travel. At the end of the week, Selfridges offered us an exclusive deal for part of our line. In short, we’re potential future billionaires.”
“Who are currently totally broke. Cheers,” says Cosimo, smiling tipsily.
“How wonderful, guys,” I say, sighing in admiration. “I’d love to get our wines on the international market.”
“Then do it!” he replies, as if it were obvious. “Take your best bottles, sign up for the most important fair you can find, and introduce the label to anyone who matters.”
He’s not entirely wrong. I know we make excellent wine, and if I found good buyers, I’d certainly have more leverage with the bank. “I’ll think about it,” I say with conviction.
“Oof,” Margherita snorts, leaning forward as we all look at her wide-eyed.
“Everything okay?” Giada asks.
“Yes, it’s these fucking false contractions. Anyway, it passed. All jokes aside, looks like we’re all in relationships—it’s just you left, Caroline,” she chirps cheerfully.
“Better alone than in bad company,” she replies dryly. “And in any case, you’re wrong. Michael is also happily single,” she points out with a smile that I feel is directed at me.
“Ah, I must have misunderstood. Cosimo and Andres, Lapo and me, Lucia and Elmo, Carletto and Giada, and then seeing Michael and Elisa sitting so close, I just assumed . . . The two of them have always been like chalk and cheese. Anyway, don’t mind me.
It’s a shame, though, you’d make a nice couple,” comments Margherita, biting into a bruschetta.
“I’ll go get the dessert,” I say, standing up suddenly. I don’t want this conversation to escalate. Michael and I are already walking on the edge of a fiery ravine. All we need is for people to start speculating.
Would we make a nice couple? I don’t know. Maybe we’re one of those beautiful ideas—brilliant in theory but disastrous in practice. It’s almost certainly the latter. And in terms of disasters, we’d be like Fukushima.
But what if we did work out?
No, it would be a one-in-a-billion chance. He and I can’t stay in the same room without arguing or jumping on each other; it certainly doesn’t bode well . . .
But . . .
Okay, that’s it. Enough of these mental movies—there is no but! I take the tray with the zuccotto and stride out toward the pergola.
“Dessert!” I announce.
“I think we have to go,” says Lapo, helping Margherita to her feet.
“These aren’t false contractions. They’re real,” she pants. “We have to get going.”
“No!” Cosimo jumps up. “We’ll take you. Come on!”
“I’m off to sleep. I have a headache,” Caroline announces, in the tone of someone who has generously given her time to inferiors.
In short, the table empties, but not quite enough to leave Michael and me alone, and with the risk we took earlier, neither of us dares to make a move.
From this dinner, I seem to have emerged in more of a bind than ever.