Frankie #2
“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” I say instead of I think I might be falling in love with you. He’s loosened his grip on me enough that I can lay a hand on his warm, hairy chest. “Boarding school at age seven? That should never happen to any kid.”
“What?” His tone is incredulous. “Are you kidding? That school was in the Alps. I was on the school ski team. We had Nutella-filled crepes and croissants for breakfast every morning, and field trips to Venice and Paris. Don’t waste
your sympathy on me. Save it for people who need it.”
“Oh, now who can’t take a compliment?”
“That wasn’t a compliment. That was pity!” In a second, he has me pinned back down to the bed and is hovering over me, his lips just inches from mine. “And I don’t want your pity, Dr. Giovanni.”
That’s very apparent. And very delightful.
“What do you want, then?” I tease, already knowing the answer because I can feel it pressing against my thighs.
But he surprises me.
“I want to take you to the sandwich shop down the street from my apartment in the city,” he says, his eyes no longer winter
lakes of darkness but sparkling with humor and excitement. “They’ve got the best porchetta I’ve ever had. I’m sure it’s not
as good as your dad’s, but I think you’ll love it. We could go to pay tribute to him. Would you want to do that with me sometime?”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” It’s the first time either of us has even remotely hinted that there might be a future
for this relationship beyond tonight. “A date in the city?”
“Yes, I am. Will you go?”
I reach up to lay a hand on his cheek. It’s been a while since he shaved, and his whiskers feel stiff and wiry. I don’t mind,
though.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I’ll go.”
“Good.” He disappoints me then by rolling off me and reaching for his briefs. “Now I’ve got another question for you.”
“Oh, God. What is it?”
“Are you hungry? I didn’t get anything to eat at that party, and we just burned a shitload of calories. I think I need to
carbo-load if we’re going to go again. That is . . .” He looks a little shy. “If you want to. Do you have patients tomorrow?”
“No, I don’t. I try not to schedule patients on Sundays, unless it’s an emergency.” Sunday is a day of rest. I heard this mantra repeated so many times by my mother, it basically lives in my brain.
“Would you mind if I grabbed a sandwich or something?” he asks. “I’d go back to my house but—”
I grin at him. “You don’t have anything there to eat. Don’t worry. I think I can do better than a sandwich. Come with me.”
That’s how we end up in my kitchen, eating my mother’s leftover risotto, as Daisy stares at us sadly from in front of the
sliding glass doors. She seems to be holding out hope one of us is going to open those doors so she can sneak back to her
home beneath the porch steps. Alas for her, neither of us does.
“This is so good,” Ash keeps saying. He’s sitting beside me at my dining table wearing only a pair of boxer briefs and the
cashmere throw from the sofa I’ve draped over his big shoulders so he won’t be cold, since he doesn’t have a robe like I do.
“But I didn’t want you to go to any trouble. We could have just ordered in.”
“Reheating something in the microwave is no trouble, Ash. Besides, it’s after ten at night. Do you think there’s any place
in West Harbor that delivers after ten?”
“What about pizz—”
“Don’t.” I narrow my eyes and point my spoon at him, mock threateningly. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. This is a small town,
and I come from a family of Italian restauranteurs. I would never live down the humiliation if my mother found out I got carryout
pizza delivered.”
He grins some more and says, “Okay. I’m not complaining. This is the best risotto I’ve ever had.”
“It’s my nonna’s recipe from the old country. Do you know the eight steps to making perfect risotto?”
“I don’t even know the first step to making perfect risotto.”
I tick off the steps on my fingers. “First you make la base—that’s the soffritto, which is usually finely chopped onion or shallot.
Then there’s la tentazione—the temptation—or la tostatura.
That’s when you toast the rice. That’s what gives it this nutty flavor.
You have to use arborio rice, of course. ”
“Of course.” I notice he’s watching me closely . . . especially my lips. “I like how you say that word . . . la tentazione. You’re a tentazione.”
“Am I?” No one has ever called me a temptation before. Cheesy as it is, I kind of like it. “You know, you have a pretty good
accent.”
“Switzerland has four official languages. They made us learn them all. But somehow they never got around to teaching us the
eight steps to perfect risotto.”
“Well, good thing I’m here, then.” Smiling, I get up to refill his glass. I’d opened a bottle of pinot grigio one of my family
members had left at my house, most likely Angie. “The next step is the wine, also known as the sigh, or il sospiro—”
“I like how you say that, too.” His gaze is definitely glued to my mouth.
“Thanks.” I put the wine bottle down and slip back into the chair beside him. “In some places in Italy, they call it lo sfumato, or the smoking, because the alcohol causes a puff of smoke—”
“You’re sfumato.” One of his big hands creeps up to stroke my hair.
I burst out laughing, though I’m secretly thrilled by this second, even cheesier compliment. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”
“It doesn’t mean smoking hot?” But he’s laughing, too, so I know he’s kidding.
“No, it does not. But thank you, that’s very kind of you. See? I’m learning to accept your compliments.”
“About time. What’s next?”
“The next step is the cooking—la cottura. This is when you ladle in the stock—”
“And stir?” His dark eyes look very bright. “Is that the stirring part?”
“Oh, yes. My nonna used to have us do the stirring—it was the best part. My brother and sisters and I would fight over who
got to stir.”
“I guess that’s the only good part of not having any siblings.” He’s polished off everything in his bowl and is now concentrating
solely on me. The cashmere throw has slipped from his shoulders, but he doesn’t notice. “No fighting.”
“No,” I say. “The fighting is the best part. During the next step—il riposo, when you let the risotto rest a bit—my siblings and I would help grate the parmigiana.”
He reaches out and drags me to his lap. I let him because it feels so natural . . . even homey.
But also sfumato.
“Pay attention,” I say. “The most important step is next—la mantecatura.”
He leans forward to kiss the back of my neck. He seems to like doing this. “Never heard of it.”
“That’s because there’s no English translation—or a Swiss or German one. It’s purely Italian. When the risotto is almost finished,
you stir in the butter and parmigiana. That’s what gives the risotto that creamy texture.”
“Hmmm,” he says. Thanks to my seat on his lap, I realize the carbo-loading has worked: he’s ready for round two.
And he knows it.
“But wait,” I cry as his arms tighten around me. “Don’t forget the final step, la mangiare—”
He’s risen from the table, cradling me. He seems to like carrying me around.
“Oh, I for one will be doing plenty of eating in the next five minutes,” he assures me.
And he isn’t exaggerating.