“Why did you make cuccidati?”
The question was unexpected. She chewed on her lower lip then stopped when his eyes dropped to the gesture. “I had my first one in Rome last week. It was delicious, but I wanted to experiment with the recipe the woman gave me.”
“If it was delicious, why experiment at all?”
“I just thought it could use something else – a hint of depth. I added some coconut to the first batch –,” his brow lifted in surprise, but she barrelled on. “Then some dried thyme, which I bought at a market. I think it works.”
His features weren’t exactly encouraging, but he was sitting there, not scowling, and that was in and of itself a turn up for the books. “Would you like to try one?”
He hesitated for a moment and then shifted his head in silent agreement.
Isabella reached across the table, where she’d discarded the plate earlier. She pushed it towards him, watching as he reached for a biscuit. His fingers were long and tanned, his nails neat, but not in a manicured way. He lifted it to his lips, his expression sceptical as he sniffed the baked goods first.
“It won’t kill you,” she said with a slight laugh, an unexpected sound cutting into the tension that surrounded them. “You might even like it.”
His eyes seemed to spark with their own electrical current when they met and held hers, even as he opened his mouth and took a bite into the small biscuit. She watched, unexpectedly nervous, awaiting his verdict as he chewed and finally swallowed.
“Well?” She prompted, eventually, then regretted it – he wasn’t likely to hold back if he didn’t like it, and she wasn’t sure her ego could take the bashing today.
“It’s very good,” he admitted a moment later. “The biscuit is just how my Yaya used to make them, but the stuffing is different.”
“The thyme,” she murmured.
“Yaya used date and orange.”
“That’s the same as the recipe I was given. I just wanted to have a tinker. I don’t know if I’ll leave the thyme in, or experiment with something else altogether; it occurred to me that dried lavender could work nicely, or candied pear, but I’m obviously a bit limited in ingredients here.”
Then, feeling as though she’d said too much, she winced. “Which isn’t to insult your kitchen. It’s surprisingly very well stocked. I suppose whoever comes and cooks does that.”
Great. She was babbling. She had no doubt he would panic and run away again, just as he was beginning to show signs of thawing. She clamped her lips together, then wiggled them into a small smile.
“I cook.”
It was the last thing she’d expected him to say.
“That is to say, Ariana, my housekeeper, leaves some meals in the freezer, but generally, while at Il Nido, I cook. The ‘very well stocked’ kitchen is at my request.”
“Oh.” Chastened, her cheeks felt warm. “I honestly didn’t have you pegged as much of a cook.”
His shoulder shrug was the most relaxed gesture she’d witnessed from him since arriving. “Why would you? You don’t know me.”
“No,” she agreed. “But I usually get a pretty good read of people. You definitely don’t give off any culinary vibes.”
“Cooking is not seen as an optional extra in my family. It’s the same as breathing, something we all must do. Yaya made sure of that.”
It was the second reference he’d made to ‘yaya’, the Greek word for grandmother. But she didn’t push or pry for information. It was enough that he was sitting opposite her, reaching for a second biscuit, not looking as though he wanted to forcibly shove her from a window.
“I do not have an apron though,” he gestured to the one she wore, so Isabella looked down spontaneously, a smile tugging at her lips.
“It’s mine.”
“You travel with it?”
“Not only do I travel with it, I keep it in my backpack with all my other most essential stuff. Lucky, because the trunk of the car has my suitcase in it and I don’t know if I’ll ever see that again.”
He frowned, his eyes probing hers, his expression thoughtful. “Why?”
“Because of the snow,” she murmured, gesturing to the window. “I feel like the car must be well-buried by now.”
He shook his head once, dismissing her response. “Why do you travel with your apron?”
“Oh.” She reached for a biscuit, lifting it between her forefinger and thumb, brushing a crumb from the edge before bringing it to her lips. “For work. I have a cooking show. Well, more of a YouTube channel, but I guess it’s the same thing. I’m not technically recording while I’m over here though – this is a research trip – but I feel kind of naked without my apron, you know?”
Heat assailed her from all sides, the casual remark intended innocently, except hearing it and delivering it to this man sent tingles through her veins. She looked away, chewing on the biscuit in the hope it would drive thoughts of being naked anywhere near Gabe Montebello from her mind.
The sound of his chair scraping back drew her attention to his face.
“Grazie for the cuccidati.” His voice was throaty, the tone deep.
She frowned a little, blinking up at him, oddly disappointed that he was leaving when they were in the midst of a mostly-pleasant conversation.
“Grazie for the WiFi. And the loan of your kitchen. And for letting me stay, come to think of it.”
He was leaving because he was tempted to linger. He was leaving because she was sweet and vivacious and talkative and her lips moved like some kind of beautiful ballet as she spoke, and he was enjoying watching them way too much. He was leaving because when she said she’d feel naked without her apron an image of her naked except for her apron seared his eyelids without his invitation, so that he felt himself grow hard beneath the table. He wanted to reach out and touch her hand, to see if her skin was as soft as he imagined. He wanted to do
