Chapter 8 Well-Intentioned Cupids
Well-Intentioned Cupids
Bianca couldn’t believe Carol had done it, told Corrado she’d moved to town and given him her number.
She’d seen Carol and company a couple of more times, taken her yoga class, met more of her expat friends from all over the world, joining them at big tables over exquisite food and wine for hours, a cluster of nomadic outcasts finding union together.
And Bianca had meandered through museums and stared at world-class paintings, finding new elements in the art, finding pieces of herself placed like hidden messages somewhere on the canvases of the great masters.
Forcing herself to break away from achieving goals and playing games where only the ending mattered, Bianca chased the joy of being an explorer, a nomad, a wanderer; she found new streets, new museums and churches and parks, new paths that led out of the city, where she could breathe the fresh air of the Apennine hills and let nature soothe her soul.
Somewhere in all this, Carol must have decided that she needed to play Cupid.
Bianca and Corrado had only caught up for a minute on the phone when he’d invited her to coffee. She’d suggested Le Briciole di Via Giulia, the pasticceria down the block. Now that he was back in town, there was no way to avoid an encounter.
So here she was, a few minutes early, standing awkwardly off to the side, unsure whether she should go ahead and get a table or wait for him. So many Italians liked to take their coffee standing up.
Le Briciole looked like it hadn’t changed in fifty years, still stuck in black and white.
Of course, that was the charm. The bar and a display case full of exquisite pastries and sandwiches lined the right side of the long and skinny space.
A series of tables were tucked up against a wall plastered in dated floral wallpaper.
An ash-haired nonna shuffled in and out of the kitchen, restocking her quickly depleting goods.
Two men with tightly cropped, dark hair wore aprons over their pressed white shirts and moved with impressive precision from the espresso machine to the display case to the cash register, doing a decent job of whittling down the ever-present line.
Bianca had spent entirely too much time trying on outfits, finally settling on newly acquired leopard-print pointed flats and a flowy black dress that was as flattering as something could be right now.
Corrado was right on time, and he hadn’t changed much at all, still the same strapping guy who’d cast a spell on her a decade ago.
Standing a few inches over six feet, he wore dark jeans and a tight white T-shirt that could easily set a girl’s mind to sizzle.
He’d bulked up some, too, his biceps stretching his short sleeves.
She also noticed a tattoo running down the length of one arm. A butcher’s knife maybe.
“Queen Bee,” he said in a thick Italian accent as he approached her. “è passato tropo tempo.” It’s been too long. His voice catapulted her back through the years.
Bianca held strong as he came in for two kisses, taking his time, possibly even sniffing her like a flower as their cheeks touched. An organic woody scent rose like a gift to her nose, and she had to take a moment to recalibrate and remind herself to be careful.
“You look angelic as always,” he said, staying close enough to kiss her again.
“Angelic?” she said skeptically, refusing to fall prey to his games. His charm required a shield, or a can of pepper spray.
His shaggy hair was all over the place. A faint scar ran north of his left eyebrow.
Sharp cheekbones brought attention to his arresting cobalt-blue eyes.
His shadow of a beard enhanced his ruggedness, a quality that Bianca had always loved.
He wasn’t the kind of guy that shied away from a bar fight.
“I thought you were in Paris,” she said, inching backward.
“Yeah, well, I was, but it was time to come home. And you? You’re here for good?”
It was indeed a chef’s knife running up his toned arm. She met those daring blue eyes that had once captured her heart. They were warm and kind and dangerous—the eyes of a protector.
“I have no idea. I’m testing the waters.”
“I see.” He extended his arm. “Shall we?”
They stood at the bar and caught up as they shared a croissant with raisins and crème and drank cappuccinos that came with a small shot of sparkling water.
Bianca couldn’t believe how easy it was to talk with him, as if those ten years of absence didn’t exist. They made trivial conversation for a while till he bored into what she’d done since they’d last seen each other—college and grad school, then her practice.
She didn’t mention the book, and he didn’t ask.
Apparently, he hadn’t been following her that closely.
“Are you seeing anyone?” he queried after a while, slipping the question in like a penknife into her belly.
“I’m not even done with my cappuccino yet, and you’re getting personal.”
He shrugged it off. “I’m sorry. Should we ease into it, as you Americans do? You know how the Romagnoli are; we cut to the chase.”
She remembered loving when he used American slang. Like so many over here, he’d perfected his English watching American television and movies.
“No, it’s okay. I like being real. And no, I’m not seeing anyone. Focusing on myself for a while.”
“Always so cerebral. I loved that about you. Trying to find yourself.” He pretended to look around, behind the counter, up on the ceiling, down to the floor. “Where is the lovely Queen Bee hiding? Has anyone seen her?”
Her laugh felt like first blood had been drawn. Damn him.
He stared and stared and stared, meanwhile she told herself, Don’t fucking do it, B. Hold strong. Don’t let him see how much of a mess you are.
“How about you? Married and kids and opening a restaurant?” Even as she asked it, she scolded herself for continuing the thread of personal entanglements.
His lips simmered into a smile. “Yes to the last. The restaurant is my child, you know. No girl. Not anymore. I’m .
. .” He looked to the ceiling. “Still searching.” He went back to exaggerated looking around, over Bianca’s shoulder, out the window, to the display case of chocolates.
“Where is this woman God has promised me? Hello, hello? Soulmate, where are you?”
Though she felt a flutter in her heart, she refused to laugh again, reminding herself of his extraordinary ability to make every girl feel that way. She used to fight them off back in the old days.
She broke a piece of the croissant off and stuck it in her mouth with a moan. “I missed this.”
He chuckled.
“What?” she asked.
“You appear out of nowhere. I’ve thought about you a lot.”
“Yeah?”
He studied her mouth and only spoke after she’d finished chewing. “Yes, I admit it. Even thought of reaching out a few times, but what would be the point? It took me a long time to get over you, Bianca Briggs.”
She thought she better drop an ice cube into the sparkling water before it went to boiling. “Enough about me. I’m assuming you went to culinary school, then Paris. Carol says you’re going after a Michelin star?”
He laughed, clearly because he knew she was avoiding his confession. And he allowed it. He caught her up on his past, including a bad breakup with a website developer, then added, “And that’s right, a new restaurant opening in six weeks. A few blocks from here, a great space.”
“I still remember your scrambled eggs,” she said.
“I make them even better now,” he said, the corners of his mouth flickering. “Butter and eggs in the pan before I even turn on the stove. Then low, low heat. You have to be so gentle.”
“No,” Bianca said, shaking her head at him. They were right back where they’d left off. “Don’t even try.”
“What? I didn’t even say anything.” His evident joy was maddening.
“Look, it’s so good to see you, but I’m not looking for anything right now.”
His eyebrows crinkled. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“What did I say? My God, you’re confident. Seriously, I’m . . . the last thing I’m looking for is a relationship.” On top of her father coming? Get out of here.
“Why put labels on it? I want to see you again. We could go to church if you like. Or a museum.”
“Right. A harmless museum.”
“Exactly. We could go see the Michelangelo eagle, the one you liked so much.”
“How do you remember that?”
He tapped his head. “I remember a lot about you. You broke my heart.”
What felt like an hour passed, neither of them blinking.
“No,” Bianca finally said. “Don’t try to charm me. Actually, my dad’s coming in tomorrow morning from Arizona, so I need to give him my full attention. He’s not doing very well.”
“I’m sorry, is he sick?”
“No, worse. At least for him. He’s retired, and it’s crushing him.”
“If I can be of service, let me know.”
“Thanks. The issue is that he’s always trying to fix things, so I can only imagine how much worse it’s gotten. I suspect I’ll be ripe for fixing, as far as he’s concerned.”
“At least he cares.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
They danced around the topic for a bit, then Corrado said, “By the way, where can I find your book? I’d love to read it.”
He did know she was a writer, which meant he’d been keeping tabs on her. A flush of delight ran through her.
But then he added, “Carol told me.”
Guess not.
Bianca instantly blushed, mortified by what he was doing to her. “It’s probably not your type of book; a female-focused self-help thing. You’re not exactly the target audience. I mean, I could give you one if you really—”
“I would. I want to jump into the head of my old friend Bianca. See what she’s done with her life. From Meh to Megawatt, right? Does this mean you are now supercharged?”
She gave him the eye. “Don’t pick on me.”
“I think it’s wonderful, my supercharged American pal.”
She blushed, hating the idea of being supercharged when it came from his mouth. “Now you’re not allowed to read it.”
He inclined his shoulders. “Fine, then. I’ll have to find another way to supercharge myself. Are you working on another one?”