“I don’t know!” I threw my hands up. “I tell myself that all the time. I wake up and say, I will not give him the satisfaction today, and somehow I forget that once he’s around me, and I end up all . . .” I fidgeted, trying to think of a word for the way Gianni could make me feel—something close to the truth without being the actual truth, which I didn’t even like admitting to myself.
“Hot and bothered?” suggested Winnie.
“Let’s stick with bothered.”
“Wow, he’s really got your number,” Felicity said.
“He does,” Winnie confirmed. “And personally, I have always thought all that heat and friction between them would make for a good time, if you know what I mean.”
“Not even if it was the end of the world and he was the last man on earth,” I said, grabbing one of the storage boxes. “Now you can make up for putting that horrible thought in my head by helping me carry these upstairs.”
Winnie giggled and grabbed one of the boxes. “I’m just saying, it’s kind of a shame all the sparks that fly when you’re in a room together can’t result in something other than frustration. Maybe if you guys just went at each other one day, you’d get along better.”
“She might be right,” Felicity said, taking the third box in her arms. “And he’s so passionate about food, I bet he’s passionate in other places too. And probably excellent with his hands.”
“Yeah. Just ask him,” I muttered, leading the way out of the tasting room.
But truthfully, I did like Gianni’s hands. After his butt, they were probably my favorite part of him.
For a moment, I imagined them skimming across my stomach or sweeping down my hip or sliding up my inner thigh.
A memory gripped me so tightly it stole my breath.
“Ellie?”
I opened my eyes and realized I’d stopped halfway up the stone staircase leading from the cellar and tasting room into Abelard’s lobby. “Sorry.”
I started moving again, offering no explanation and doing my best to shove the memory and the thought of Gianni’s hands on my skin from my mind.
It could never happen again.
THREE
GIANNI
Inside the small office off Etoile’s kitchen, I took off my coat and sat down at the desk. Leaving here by two o’clock meant I had a lot to get done in the next few hours—check yesterday’s sales and time sheets, do inventory, place orders, help Ellie load the wine and glasses she was taking to Harbor Springs into my SUV. I also wanted to run home and change clothes, just in case Ellie needed a hand pouring or the hostess needed help serving.
Anything I could do to increase Ellie’s chances of snagging that 30 Under 30 spot, I’d do it.
But before I did anything, I had to call my dad. We both had Monday nights off and usually spent them cooking together at my parents’ house, trying new ingredients, testing out recipes, coming up with fresh takes on traditional favorites, giving my mom a hard time, making her taste everything and tell us whose dish was better （she would never choose）。
I wasn’t sure I’d ever get married—and it wouldn’t be until I was much older and too tired to do anything else—but if I did, I wanted the kind of marriage my parents had. It wasn’t that they always got along perfectly, like Ellie’s parents seemed to, but no matter how much they scrapped, at the end of the day they were always on the same side—usually it was them against me and my twin brothers, who were two years younger and ten times as rowdy. My poor mom had to put up with a lot of shit when we were kids, and my dad worked crazy restaurant hours, so she had to wrangle us on her own most of the time and take care of our baby sister too.
My dad knew it, and the only time he’d ever really get mad at one of us was if we’d done or said something that upset our mom. He was a guy’s guy, and he could be a real dick in the kitchen if things weren’t done exactly the way he wanted them, but he was madly in love with my mother and always had been. He said he knew he’d marry her the first day they met.
That was why last summer, when she was diagnosed with breast cancer, he’d asked me to come home from L.A. and run the kitchen at his restaurant, Trattoria Lupo, for a few months. Lick My Plate had already finished filming, but I wouldn’t have hesitated anyway—I jumped on a plane, rented an apartment not far from the restaurant, and dedicated myself to his kitchen like it was my own.
Luckily, the cancer was non-invasive and treatable, but it was still a rough time. She’d needed surgery and radiation in order to lower the risk of recurrence. My dad wanted to focus solely on her, and she was overwhelmed trying to manage her health and get my younger sister—her name was Francesca, but we always called her Chessie—ready for her freshman year at Kalamazoo College.