by Amanda Usen
“You think too much,” he countered softly, closing the gap between them.
She held up her hand. “I’m sorry if I led you on, but I told you I’m not good at this. I just can’t…”
Her tortured expression brought him back to his senses. “You’d better go to the kitchen then.”
She blanched, making him instantly regret his harsh tone. He swallowed, wanting to reassure her. “I’m sorry, Olivia.”
“It’s okay.” She nodded too quickly for him to believe she meant it. She kept her eyes on the floor, making him wonder what she was thinking. He was used to seeing her meet every situation head-on, with her eyes open and her head up. Again, he wondered. “What happened during your marriage, Olivia?”
Her eyes flew to his, and he saw something stir in their depths. “You handled the divorce, counselor. Weren’t you paying attention?”
“Yes, I know Keith was unfaithful. We cited him for adultery and he didn’t contest it. But what really happened? Did he do something to you?”
Olivia’s laugh was a sharp burst of air. She shook her head. “No, he sure didn’t. Not a thing.”
Something in her voice made him want more answers, even though her expression was forbidding. “But you were intimate, right?”
Her eyebrows flew upward. “That is none of your business.”
“Don’t give me that.”
She crossed her arms. “Define intimate.”
“You had sex.”
She burst out laughing again. “Keith had sex with everyone. That was the problem.”
“Smart ass. You had sex with each other,” he corrected.
She nodded, but her smile was sad. “At the beginning. When I found out he was sleeping around, I didn’t want him touching me. No great loss. It wasn’t…I didn’t…” She sighed.
“Ah.” It was inadequate but it filled the silence while he gathered his courage. “So that night when you asked me to stay, you were…” Words failed him again. His face must have said it for him.
“Desperate? Pathetic? Giving it one more shot?”
“And I—”
She cut him off. “Yeah, you did. Or as the case may be, didn’t. But it’s okay. It’s fine.”
No, it wasn’t okay, and it sure as hell wasn’t fine because she was sad, and at this moment he would do anything to remove the grief from her eyes, to erase the devastation that had been haunting her expression for months now. He reached for her again, but she stepped back.
“You told me to go to the kitchen, remember?”
He deserved that. He was reassured by the color in her cheeks and fire in her eyes, but he didn’t want her to leave the room thinking about that night. “You can run, but you can’t hide.” He forced a teasing smile. “I’ve got plans, remember? I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. Your ex-husband is an idiot. Whatever we do together will be unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, I guarantee it. So, fine, go down to the kitchen, but you can’t escape my high school fantasies forever.”
He pointed at the towels on the bed. “However, if you want to knot those suckers together to make a rope, we can escape from the balcony together. Your mother will never know.”
She laughed and the happy sound made him smile too. “Not a half bad idea, Romeo, but I think I’ll just suck it up.” She paused at the door. “You’ll be okay on your own?”
“Sure,” he said casually. Better to be alone than in the kitchen watching Chef Smarmy put the moves on her. “I’m on vacation, after all. I can think of a half a dozen things to do until dinnertime. Hey, if I order a snack from room service, will you be the one to bring it up?”
“Only if you want me to poison it,” she said as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.
Chapter 6
Olivia sank down onto the bench at the trestle table in the upper kitchen and closed her eyes. Her body still ached from the effects of Sean’s kisses. What had he said? Whatever we do together will be unlike anything you experienced with him. She shivered. No doubt. She was sure he was good in bed, but she was an utter disaster.
A disaster according to whom? The question popped into her head, and she considered it. Keith had been the one who didn’t want to kiss her, didn’t want to make love to her, and eventually stopped coming home to her. Keith had subsequently proven himself to be an authority on absolutely nothing. Was it wishful thinking to hope he was wrong about other things too?
She searched her memory, going back to their years in culinary school, trying to remember what had made her believe in Keith in the first place. He had come on strong, overcoming her reservations with fast-talking charm. He’d been a rule bender, a fast worker in the kitchen, a teacher’s pet, and good girl that she was, she’d admired those qualities immensely.
Keith had convinced her he could run Chameleon, made her think that if they married, all her worries would be over. She had discovered too late that his slick charm disguised inability. He took shortcuts that ruined the food, insisting the fastest way to do something was the best way.
It had taken her two years to see through his façade and when she had, her restaurant had been in shambles—one more reason to be grateful to Marlene. Marlene had stuck around through two years of hell with Keith in charge and now she was in Norton cleaning up his mess. No, she was cleaning up Olivia’s mess. She scrubbed her face against her palms as shame made her cheeks burn.
She had run away, and worse—she didn’t want to go back. A real boss would have stuck around to earn back the respect of the staff, not fled. She needed to regain her self-respect, not indulge in a senseless affair with another man who made her feel weak and inadequate.
Nice try. Olivia sighed, catching herself in the lie. Sean did make her feel weak, but only in the knees. When he had laid her on the bed, his strength had made her feel strong too. His weight on top of her had made her feel protected and powerful. He didn’t make her feel inadequate. He made her feel invincible, but maybe that was the problem. She didn’t trust her own judgment anymore. The intense desire to be with Sean could be another sign of her imminent personal apocalypse.
So, where, exactly, did that leave her? Well, let’s see—she was in Italy with a man who wanted to make love to her. She’d been summoned to the kitchen by her mother who was probably going to kill her. She had a boatload of guilt from her failed marriage, a stalled career, and no bright, shiny plan for her future. She felt her wheels begin to spin. What was she going to do?
Abruptly, she decided not to panic. The old Olivia would panic. The new Olivia, the one who had just been making out with Sean, was going to figure this out. Somehow. She sat up straight on the bench and pulled her shoulders back, taking a deep breath, letting the air fill her chest, forcing it lower, into her belly. She blew it out. One more slow breath.
She could do this. One plate at a time, right?
Sean was in his room, so she could ignore him for the moment. The rest of her life could wait too. That left her in the kitchen, alone, not a bad place to be at all. Olivia looked around.
The trestle table at which she sat was the focal point of the upper level. A wine bar sat against the near wall with bottles racked up to the ceiling. A narrow table-like ledge circled the room. There were high stools placed at intervals to create intimate seating arrangements. The top level gave the effect of a tiny restaurant dining room with a roomy chef’s table in the center.
Her bird’s-eye view of the empty lower level showed a more traditional production kitchen with stainless steel tables, another small dish room, and refrigerators, ovens, and stoves on both ends of the cooking space. She could easily picture smooth workflow from refrigerator to workstation, from workstation to table, from table to dish room.
The outer wall of the lower kitchen was made entirely of windows, filling the room with natural light. The windows, combin
ed with the stainless steel tables, coolers and ovens gave the kitchen a sophisticated feel while the exquisite copper pots and sauté pans hanging above the stoves and the warm colors on the walls gave the room welcoming charm. The kitchen had been painted in shades of yellow that made her think of wheat waving in the wind. The burgundy and umber accents were reminiscent of red wine and rich, dark soil. The split-level teaching kitchen was beautiful as well as functional, with every piece of equipment placed for maximum efficiency. There was no arguing with the fact that her mother was a genius.
She heard a door slam and a voice getting rapidly louder. She wiped her fingers under her eyes, smoothed her ponytail, and stood, ready to face whoever was approaching. The upper-level door swung open, crashing into the wall, and Alessandro stormed into the kitchen, snarling into his cell phone. When he saw her, he stopped.
She watched cautiously as Alessandro made a visible effort to control himself. He spoke so quickly she could only understand about every other word of the Italian he spoke as he ended the call.
He dropped the phone in his pocket. “Ciao, Olivia. Are you looking for your mother?”
She offered him a brief smile. “I’m looking for someone to tell me what I can do to help with dinner,” she explained.
“Is that so?” His eyebrows arched.
“I can cook,” she assured him, wincing as her defensive tone brought a patronizing smile to his face.
“Of course you can, but everything is already prepared for dinner tonight…unless you’d like to chop some herbs?” he asked, in the manner of someone appeasing a child.
“Sure.” She felt the smile congeal on her face.
He handed her a stainless steel bowl from the dish room. “The garden is along the side of the villa. We need parsley, rosemary, and basil. Do you know them?”
She blinked, thinking she had misunderstood his accented English, then realized he had indeed just asked her if she could identify parsley. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” She narrowed her eyes. There was always something to be done in the kitchen. Always. Why was he wasting her time picking herbs?
“Chef Alessandro?” she called as he strode down the shallow stairs and headed for the stoves. He turned his head and raised an eyebrow. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Some simple vegetables, cheeses and meats for antipasti, gnocchi, osso buco, and lavender gelato for dolci.”
“Can I assume we’ll have a gremolata with the osso buco?”
He swung around to face her fully. “Naturally.”
“Is it done?”
“Of course.”
“Just checking,” she said, giving him a sunny smile as she headed out the door to pick herbs she now knew he didn’t even need. Well, at least it was work she could do well. She snorted softly. No chance of failure here.
The herb garden at the side of the house was well-tended and neatly labeled in English and Italian. Only an idiot could fail to bring back the correct varieties. She picked until the bowl was full. He hadn’t told her how much to gather and she wasn’t about to go back into the kitchen to ask.
She moved down the row and began plucking the blooms from lavender gone to flower. It was too pretty to ignore and would look lovely as a garnish on his gelato. A drizzle of lavender honey would be perfect too, but she stopped the thought. Not her job, not her problem. She was just the herb girl. Still, she’d leave the flowers in the kitchen and see if they appeared on the table. She sighed, resigned to kitchen scut work while Alessandro looked down his Roman nose at her.
The sun was just beginning to drop as she turned back toward the kitchen door. A glass of wine sounded like heaven, but she didn’t dare treat herself until the herbs were chopped. She entered the kitchen and set her bowl down on a workstation. Cutting boards, spatulas, tongs, towels, and wooden spoons were neatly lined up on a shelf under the counter. She reached for a towel, wet it, and laid it on the table underneath her cutting board to keep it from slipping. Then she pulled open the drawer in front of her, knowing without a doubt she’d find a razor-sharp chef’s knife. Her mother thought of everything.
She set to work stripping rosemary leaves from stems. The sharp piney scent mingled with the smell of warm sunshine and reminded her of Sean’s aftershave. Heat rose to her cheeks as she began to chop. Of course he would have to smell like something edible.
When the rosemary was finished, she used the flat of the blade to scrape it into a ramekin. She began to strip the leaves from the parsley stems. When she had a fluffy pile in front of her, she compressed it into a tight bundle and began to chop it into bits.
Alessandro entered the kitchen and paused beside her, just inside her comfort zone. She glanced at him, then back at her cutting board.
“You are as talented as your mother claims,” he declared.
She kept her head down so he couldn’t see her roll her eyes. It was freakin’ parsley, after all. When she had her expression under control, she looked up at him but she kept her knife moving swiftly and evenly through the parsley. “Thank you. Perhaps you’ll find some use for me,” she managed to say without irony.
A sound drew their attention to the back door. Joy raced through her when she saw her father.
“Papà!” Olivia dropped the knife on the cutting board and launched herself at the man coming through the door.
She buried her face in his shirt. He held her tight as she tunneled into his arms. He smelled like sweat and earth, like wine and sunshine on clean skin. Oh, thank God, he was here. She hadn’t known until this minute she needed him, hadn’t known she needed shoring up until the dam broke and she finally wept on his shoulder. Chuckling softly, he drew her sobbing toward the back door.
The feel of his wide palm patting her back made her cry harder. How many times had he comforted her after some childhood disaster? How many days had she come home from school and told him all her miseries while he made her a snack in the kitchen at the restaurant? If only her current troubles could be so easily cured with a big plate of spaghetti. Her stomach rumbled.
Her father looked over his shoulder. “We’ll have espresso and biscotti,” he said to Alessandro.
More tears came to her eyes when her father treated her like an honored guest. “I have to finish the herbs, Papà.”
His laugh was full of disdain. “What are you going to do with the herbs, cara, wash them with your tears? Cook if you like but leave the herbs to Marco, our dishwasher. He doesn’t have enough to keep him busy at the moment.” He led her out onto the back patio to a padded wrought-iron lounge chair. He sat, pulling her down beside him. “I heard you brought a man with you.”
Olivia gulped. The door opened and Alessandro strode out with a tray. She waited for him to set it on the small table in front of them and go back into the kitchen. She picked up her tiny cup and sniffed, relishing the scent of the hot, rich brew. “Sean is my lawyer.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” Olivia sipped too quickly and burned her tongue.
Her father raised an eyebrow. “You think that’s a good idea?”
“No.” She never lied to her father. It was a waste of time. She wasn’t sure what else to add, though. She cleared her throat, paused.
He spoke first. “Why don’t you take a break, cara? Let it settle. Give your heart time to heal. I assume that’s why you’re crying?”
Olivia gave a quick nod. Wise words. Good words. She should do that. Her heart was only half the problem, though. Her life was the other half. How on earth was she going to tell her parents she wanted to quit the restaurant? Every project they started turned into a huge success. Her mother would make Villa Farfalla famous. Her father had taken over the winery and was already exporting wine, whereas she wanted to hand over their family business to Marlene and Joe and…what? What did she want to do? The sense memory of Sean’s kiss swept throu
gh her. Other than that, she told herself sternly.
She schooled her expression as her father’s face became stern.
He crossed his arms, still scowling. “Your marriage…it is over?”
“The divorce is now final.” Olivia looked down, examining the tile under her feet. Keith’s utter betrayal had motivated Olivia to make it happen quickly. Two months and they were done. Finished.
It shouldn’t make her heart ache, but it did.
“I’m sorry, cara.”
“I never should have married him.” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I feel like an idiot.” She slumped and let her head rest on the back of the chair. Her father touched her arm. She opened her eyes, dreading the judgment she expected to see. Instead, she saw sympathy.
“He was very charming, tesoro. He fooled us too. We don’t blame you. In fact, we blame ourselves. We should have been there for you. We wanted to give you the chance to make Chameleon yours. We didn’t want to interfere…”
“I know, Papà. I appreciate that.” But I failed. She closed her eyes against the pain that knowledge caused. His approval felt like warm sunshine after a long Norton winter and she didn’t want to step out of the light.
He grasped her hands. “You shouldn’t have had to go through that by yourself.”
“I wasn’t alone. I had Marlene. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” So true.
Her father’s smile was proud. “How is my other girl?”
“Fabulous as ever. You should see her and Joe on the line together. I swear they remind me of you and Mamma. They’re that good.”
“I’m glad she’s happy.” He gave her a searching look. “I want you to be happy too.”
“I’m happy to be here, Papà. That’s enough for me now.”
She was glad when he turned to look out over the vineyard, and a wide grin softened his face. “Would you like to come check the grapes with me? It’s nearly time to harvest the Amarone.”
His excitement made her smile, but she shook her head. “Tomorrow.”
