Chapter 15 A Relentless Hunter #2
He touched his heart. “Fair enough. It’s true, I’ve worked far too hard sometimes.
That’s partially why I left Paris. I didn’t like that culture.
So much ego, so much anger. I make slow food.
And the only way to do that is to move slowly, live slowly.
And though some might argue with me, I’m not in it for the awards.
I don’t particularly care about the acclaim or even getting the star.
Cooking is what I’m here for, and my joy comes from serving people, seeing the delight on their faces when they’re given an experience they won’t soon forget, giving them an escape from the troubles of their world—if only for a while.
What I like is the experience given by a Michelin-starred restaurant.
I’ll never forget my first time . . . but anyway . . .”
“No, please tell me.” In the back of her mind, she acknowledged that maybe he was a lot like George, the way he wanted to help others.
As Corrado recounted his memory, she was struck by the way he saw the world. He wasn’t megawatted, not in the slightest.
When he finished, they held eye contact for far too long. She could have knocked the table away and jumped him right then. Those ten years disappeared in a flash, like they were kids again, exploring each other as virgins.
He leaned in closer. “I missed you, my Bianca.”
She looked down. “No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what? Why so hesitant?”
“Do you have a few hours?” She felt herself redden. “I have to figure myself out right now.”
He didn’t blink. “We have unfinished business. I’m only halfway through, but does Peggy Meh find love? I’m imagining her male counterpart. Perhaps Billy Boring.”
“Billy Boring? You’re ridiculous.”
“Or maybe Anthony Awful.”
“Talk about awful. And no, Peggy doesn’t find love. It’s not a love story.”
“Ah, then there’s book two, right? Peggy Missing to Peggy Mesmerized, dazzled by her Italian lover.”
“Will you stop it?” She covered her cheeks.
He reached across the table and pulled her hands away. “Look at you. You’re even more beautiful when you blush.”
She shook him off. “I’m warning you. I’m about to go get on a plane and go back to Texas.”
He sat back in retreat. “What if your book failed, just to get you here? Ever consider that?”
Maybe she hadn’t considered it, which was weird. Had the universe conspired against her, making it impossible for her book to succeed? No, the book had failed because she’d clearly written the wrong book. Or given the wrong message. Thought she was funny when she was anything but.
“Or what if you came here to write this second book? Your love story.”
Bianca set her elbows on the table, stared down at her empty cappuccino, and began to massage her temples.
“What’s going on in there? Looking for yourself in the cup? Bianca, where are you?”
She slowly looked up at him. His silliness deserved a kick in the shin.
“Would you like to come see my restaurant?” he asked.
She started shaking her head and didn’t stop, staring at him, wondering if there was any possible way to escape this madness. No, there wasn’t. Whatever this was, it was happening. Who was she kidding? Never had she been more attracted to a man. Ten years, and she could still taste him.
“Here we are,” Corrado said twenty minutes later, stopping to admire the exterior of the Hotel Minerva, where his restaurant was located.
The ten-story, stark-white building was constructed with modern taste: tall windows, a sharp and boxy design.
Balconies on each floor. A doorman pushed open the door and greeted them.
As they walked through the lobby, Bianca asked, “Is he going to open the door for you every time you go to work?”
“He has so far. He’ll get tired of me soon.”
In the back left corner, a small, elegant sign above two white doors read Il Minerva. He twisted a key in a lock and then guided them to a small host area with a coat check. A second set of double doors led into the dining room.
She gasped as her eyes darted about, soaking it in.
Crystal chandeliers hung from a thirty-foot-tall ceiling painted royal blue.
In the corner stood an impressive glassed-in wine room with hundreds of bottles perched in tall racks.
Potted white orchids rested on tall and skinny metal tables.
Massive racy paintings hung from the cream walls.
One featured two nude men dancing together under the moon, their hands on each other’s backsides.
Another depicted a woman’s legs with a flock of birds forming a V shape at her thighs.
A month away from the opening, but the tables were already set.
“I’m speechless.”
“Not what you expected.”
“You amaze me, you know that, right?”
He flashed a humble smile, so human, so gentle, so committed to creating something special. She shook her head as she searched his eyes, still seeing the young man who’d captured her years ago, but now seeing the man he’d become. Everything seemed to come so easy to him.
“I think you’re incredible. This. This is incredible.”
“Come see the rest.” He was like a kid showing off his sandcastle, so proud and eager.
She followed him past a velvet curtain into an immaculate and impressive kitchen. Various vegetables and fruits were spread out on one of the long stainless-steel tables. All of the equipment, the ovens, stoves, fryers, the mixers, blenders sparkled.
He gave her a quick tour, explaining how he used each machine in the kitchen.
“I made an Italian take on an Andalucían gazpacho, you know, the tomato soup. Wanna try it?”
“Sure.”
He washed his hands, then located a tray of plastic tubs in the refrigerator and set them on his workspace. He poured the soup into a bowl, a red color that could only come from Italy, explaining that he used Sicilian tomatoes that had been on a vine only two days prior.