What Love Tastes Like

by Zuri Day

  “Joy Lynn Parsons! You know you shouldn’t have gone shopping for me! How much did this cost you?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure it ends up in your suitcase.”

  “Look, my days will be spent in the kitchen and my nights will be spent in bed, alone. This is a crash course in upscale Italian cuisine, girl. I’m not going to have the time or place to wear something like this.”

  Joy had rolled her eyes. “Didn’t your daddy ever tell you to always be like the Boy Scouts—prepared?”

  “Sure. As long as I was preparing myself for something he wanted me to do.”

  “Well, these gifts to you are because of what I want, which is for you to stop being so serious and single-minded, and remember to have a good time.” With that, Joy had reached into another bag and pulled out a pair of jewel-toned, strappy sandals.

  “Girl, I don’t wear stuff like this!” It was true. Tiffany was more likely to be found in cotton tops and jeans.

  “You will in Rome. Who knows? You might star in your own Kiki series and become a rich man’s wifey.”

  “Who’s Kiki?”

  “Kiki Swinson.”

  “Is that somebody at Randall’s job?”

  “Fool, this woman is far from working at UPS with my husband. She’s a bestselling author!”

  “Oh, please, you and your book addiction. Those fairy-tale endings only happen in fiction.”

  “And sometimes life imitates art,” Joy fired back.

  “Well, even if Kiki writes about a rich man who works in a kitchen, I’m sure my story’s ending will differ from the one you read.”

  “No, you’ll have to navigate the world of thugs and drugs to be in her story.”

  “Like I said, fiction isn’t fact.” Tiffany dangled the shoes in front of her, turning them this way and that, frowning as if what she held were foreign objects. “You need to take these shoes and stuff back to the store and get a refund,” she said somberly.

  “Tiffany, you’re my best friend in the world, but as God is my witness, I’m going to beat your ass with those stilettos if you don’t stop acting ungrateful!”

  The women laughed and continued joking around as Tiffany tried on the outfit and modeled it for Joy. Her friend’s taste was excellent and the choices spot on. The dress, which stopped a couple inches above the knee, spotlighted Tiffany’s assets and hit her curves in all the right places. The sandals not only gave Tiffany height, but accented surprisingly long legs for someone so short. Tiffany looked gorgeous in the outfit.

  Nick felt Tiffany’s eyes on him and turned slowly, the words he was about to say to one of his partners dying on his lips. His eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the vision in front of him.

  “Nick? Buddy, are you still there?”

  “Let’s touch base tomorrow,” Nick said into the phone. He disconnected the call without waiting for a reply.

  Tiffany’s nerves increased under his intense perusal. Had she chosen the wrong outfit? Was this too dressy for where they were going? Was it too much, did it suggest something that she hadn’t intended? Why does he keep staring at me without saying anything?

  “I can change if this isn’t appropriate,” she blurted, suddenly feeling like the little girl who’d chagrined her father, which, with her choices, had often been the case.

  “It’s perfect,” Nick breathed. He was trying to rein in feelings and emotions that had no place in this room, in this city, with this woman. It had been easier with the teddy-bear clutching girl in jeans; the task would be much harder with this sexy vixen with the hourglass figure he wanted to sculpt with his hands.

  Once they were settled in the town car, Nick forced his thoughts away from how good Tiffany looked in the satiny dress she wore and turned them toward those good for casual conversation. After all, it would be another fifteen minutes before they reached their destination.

  “I know this is your first trip to Europe, but have you ever been out of the States?”

  Tiffany nodded. “If you count Mexico…Cabo San Lucas.”

  “I see.”

  Tiffany glanced over at Nick, who observed her thoughtfully while rubbing his mustache, something she deduced was an unconscious habit.

  “Why Rome?” he asked.

  Tiffany smiled, thankful for the familiar territory they were entering. “I’m studying to be a chef.”

  Nick’s brows rose. “Really?”

  “Yes. I just graduated from culinary school and am here to train under a master of Italian cuisine.”

  Nick’s interest piqued, and he turned to face Tiffany. “Who?”

  “You probably don’t know him; he’s famous in cooking circles, but not a name often heard in the outside world.”

  “It wouldn’t happen to be Emilio Riatoli, would it?”

  Tiffany’s mouth opened in shock. “You’ve heard of him?”

  Again, Nick blessed Tiffany with the deep, throaty laugh that made her love lair tingle. His eyes sparkled as he answered. “I’ve heard of him, yes.”

  Tiffany looked at Nick with new appreciation. Anyone who was enthusiastic for, let alone knowledgeable about anything or anyone in the culinary world gained credence in her eyes. “How do you know of Chef Riatoli?”

  “This is one of my favorite cities, remember?” His smile deepened, but he said nothing further.

  “He was on tour in the States and conducted a class at our school,” Tiffany continued. “It was mainly on sauces, but he also demonstrated a couple dishes from another of his areas of expertise…seafood. He’s a genius at what he does,” she added, with more than a little admiration in her voice. “My dream is to open a restaurant in LA, one with cuisine similar to Chef Riatoli’s specialties—but with my own interpretation, of course.”

  Nick’s interest in and appreciation for Tiffany grew. Here was a woman after his own heart, with dreams that complemented the future he visualized.

  “What types of specialties would your restaurant serve?”

  Tiffany sighed and sat back, at ease when talking about her ultimate life goal. It was the first time she’d felt totally comfortable with Nick since they met.

  “I’d have several scallop-based appetizers,” she began. “Served in various sauces, richly embodied yet never overpowering the fish’s delicate taste. I love working with asparagus, especially white asparagus, and it’s a perfect complement to this seafood. Chef Riatoli makes a dish that is amazing.” Tiffany’s mouth watered of its own accord as she remembered the dish Chef had prepared in their classroom kitchen.

  I pettini al pomodoro e l’asparago, Nick thought. Emilio’s simple yet succulent pairing of scallops with asparagus was his singularly favorite appetizer in all of Italy.

  “What about salads,” he prompted after Tiffany had reeled off several more variations on her scallop ideas.

  “Simple, clean,” she answered easily. “Too often, cooks make the mistake of putting too many ingredients into their salad creations. Chef Riatoli teaches that less is often more when it comes to marrying flavors. I’ve been playing around with an arugula salad that is nothing but greens, thin slices of fennel and tomato, with a basic vinaigrette that contains—” Tiffany stopped, realizing she was about to divulge a secret ingredient. “That contains a little something extra,” she finished, her mouth pursing with the effort of not blurting out the very essences this man reminded her so much of—maple syrup with a hint of wasabi—sweet and hot.

  The car turned the corner and entered a narrow street, typical of what one would imagine when thinking of Europe. The brick buildings on the left side of the street were adorned with flower-filled balconies and wooden shutters. The right side of the street was lined with cafés, all boasting outside seating enhanced with subdued lighting, candles, stark white linen, and canopies that bathed the setting in splashes of color. Belatedly, Tiffany realized she’d hardly noticed the city, so caught up had she been in sharing her dream menu. But now, as they approached the end of the block, she looked around and b
egan reading the names of the restaurants and designer clothing and shoe shops on the other side of the street. Her heart beat faster as she read one sign that stated simply, Fia’s.

  “You’ll love the area,” Chef Riatoli’s assistant had told her when he’d provided information to help Tiffany’s transition. “And whatever you do, don’t spend all your money at Fia’s.”

  “Who’s that?” Tiffany had asked.

  “Only the newest and most sought-after designer in Rome,” the assistant had explained. “Her shop is largely by appointment only, and her dresses are on probably half the actresses you see on the red carpet.”

  Tiffany had assured him that when it came to designer fashions, her money was safe in her purse. Now, had it been a culinary shop, with various pots, pans, and kitchen utensils? Tiffany would have been in trouble. It was designer knife sets, not designer knits, that warmed her blood. But Fia’s is right across the street from where I’ll be working, he said. It’s right across the street from—

  “Here we are, sir.” The driver interrupted Tiffany’s thoughts. “Safely delivered to your favorite place in Rome…”

  “AnticaPesa,” both he and Tiffany finished together. “You know him!” she gushed to Nick. “You know Chef Riatoli!”

  “Guilty as charged,” Nick said, his grin now full and unabashed.

  The door on her side opened and the chauffeur waited to help her out of the car. Tiffany, however, remained glued to her seat.

  “His delicacies await us, mia bellezza,” Nick prodded. “Shall we?”

  “I can’t,” Tiffany answered, feeling inadequate one minute, overwhelmed the next. “I’m here as Chef’s cook, not his customer! I can’t afford this place. I’m a student. I’m…What will he think of me walking into his establishment to eat?”

  Nick stepped out of the car, walked around to Tiffany’s side, and extended his hand. “Sweetheart, he’ll think you’re hungry. Come.”

  5

  The maitre d’ smiled broadly as Nick entered the warm and cozy foyer. “Dominico, mio amico! Benvenuto di nuovo a AnticaPesa. Come lei è sono?”

  “Buono, grazie,” Nick answered, before switching to English for Tiffany’s benefit. “Very good, in fact. It’s been far too long since I’ve been here, but I see you are managing well without me. The place is full, as usual.”

  “Too many customers,” the maitre d’ admitted, his English punctuated with a lyrical accent. “But that is a good problem to have, no?”

  Nick placed a hand at the small of Tiffany’s back and guided her forward. “My friend, Ms. Matthews,” he said, his voice smoky and possessive. “Tiffany, this is Rolando.”

  The maitre d’s eyes widened in appreciation. “Bella donna,” he gushed, bringing Tiffany’s hand to his lips and kissing it gently. “It is my pleasure to feast upon such exquisite beauty.”

  Tiffany released a self-conscious giggle as Joy’s voice swam into her consciousness. “Italian men love Black women,” she’d said as Tiffany modeled the dress. “You might get ravished by a ravioli-eating—”

  “Grazie,” Tiffany answered softly, speaking the word she’d heard Nick say earlier, that obviously meant thank you. It was her first foray into Italian, and a blatant attempt to turn her thoughts away from the sexually oriented conversation that had preceded Joy’s comment.

  “Prego,” the maitre d’ responded as they reached Nick’s reserved table. “Should we start with your usual wine, sir?”

  “No, I think we’ll go for something a bit more celebratory. It’s Tiffany’s first visit to Rome.”

  “Ah, then let me send the sommelier to discuss an appropriate choice for you and the giovane donna.” The maitre d’ smiled at Tiffany, nodded at Nick, and walked away.

  Tiffany tried not to gawk. The last thing she wanted to do was to come across like a country bumpkin who’d been nowhere. But after a few seconds, her attempt at sophistication failed her. Because the truth of the matter was that she was a bumpkin, albeit a city one, who’d never been anywhere like this before. She looked from the beautifully set tables to the beautiful people occupying them, listened to the soft sounds of classical music providing the subtlest of backdrops for erudite conversations and, she imagined, more than a few declarations of love. The place oozed romanticism as well as wealth. Tiffany felt like Cinderella, her crystal-covered sandals as close to a glass slipper as Tiffany needed. She only hoped her dress wouldn’t disintegrate at midnight, unless it was at the hands of the prince sitting across from her.

  Nick sat back and watched Tiffany. Her unsophisticated wonder captivated him, made him feel good. Her energy was so unlike Angelica’s, who’d become bored with Rome and increasingly unappreciative of the city’s cuisine. “I’m not crazy about it,” she’d said of Riatoli’s signature scallop dish, the one Tiffany had come to copy and conquer. But where Angelica had become jaded and taken life’s luxuries for granted, Tiffany soaked them up with the appreciation due them. Nick was overcome with the desire to be the one who introduced her to the finer things in life, to his world. He was about to tell her so when Tiffany’s eyes widened and dimples rippled with the smile that broke across her face.

  One glance at her mentor walking in their direction and excitement replaced Tiffany’s nervousness. This was the man who was going to fill her with the knowledge that would bring her closer to her dreams. “Chef Riatoli!” she whispered, when he stopped at her table.

  Chef smiled at her but addressed Nick first. “Signore Rollins. It is my pleasure.”

  “As always, Emilio, the pleasure is mine.” Nick looked at Tiffany and ignored the stab of jealousy that arose at the adoring way she stared at Emilio. “I believe you know my dining companion, Tiffany Matthews?”

  “Indeed I do,” Chef Riatoli said. “It is a thoughtful student who tests the dishes she’ll attempt to master.” He finally turned to Tiffany. “Welcome to Roma.”

  “Thank you, Chef. I hope you don’t mind my coming to your dining room instead of the kitchen on this first visit.”

  “In the company of one of my best customers? Never!”

  Chef Riatoli and Nick conversed a moment more before the sommelier joined them to discuss the wine list. “I’ll leave you to this expert,” Chef Riatoli finished. “But may I suggest the veal for your main course tonight? It’s exquisite, grown especially for our kitchen.”

  “We’ll take your suggestions for the entire meal,” Nick countered easily. Before turning to the sommelier, Nick looked at Tiffany. “Do you prefer sweet or dry?”

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” she concluded honestly. “You decide.”

  Nick and the sommelier settled on a Dom Perignon Rosé, to start, as the waiter brought out a basket of focaccia, fresh from the oven. The flat bread was golden brown, topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, and olive oil, and a bowl of red caviar.

  Over the next two and half hours, Tiffany learned about the man named Dominique “Nick” Rollins and ate the best food she’d ever tasted in her life. In between the perfectly cooked scallop appetizer, raw oysters on the half shell (which Tiffany loved, to her surprise), smoked mozzarella salad, and the palate-cleansing chilled celery soup, Tiffany learned about Nick’s latest venture, a boutique hotel, and their shared dream of owning a five-star eatery with a three-star Michelin rating—the highest rating awarded by this industry bible, and a difficult score to achieve. During the fifth and sixth courses, braised monk-fish followed by the medium-rare veal that tasted like ambrosia and melted in their mouths, Nick learned that Tiffany was an only child with an independent streak, a college graduate with a near four-point average, and a delicious mix of contradictions—a feisty woman with a childlike need for the security of a twenty-three-year-old teddy bear. While not spending much time talking about her parents, Tiffany showed open admiration for her grandmother, who’d encouraged her love of cooking. The food Nick and Tiffany ate was accompanied by a chilled Chardonnay, and later a mellow Cabernet Sauvignon. Though she’d only had one glass of each, T
iffany was feeling as warm and fuzzy as Tuffy by the time dessert arrived. The gelato-based treat was a Chef Riatoli original, and the alcohol Tiffany had consumed was the only logical explanation for how Nick’s caramel-covered finger, which he’d dipped in the sweet masterpiece, ended up in her mouth.

  6

  “Um, it’s delicious.” Tiffany moaned as the mix of cool Italian ice cream danced with the warmth of the melted caramel sliding down Nick’s long, thick index finger.

  Nick had initiated the playful moment, almost daring Tiffany to loosen up by tasting Emilio’s creation from this digit. But once again, Tiffany surprised him, this time with an unexpected show of boldness. The tables turned unexpectedly, and it now seemed as if Tiffany might beat him at his own game. He covered his growing ardor, and discomfort, with humor. “Yes, but how’s the dessert?”

  Tiffany finished licking the caramel off Nick’s finger, laughing as she did so. “It’s so good,” she whispered, dipping her finger into the saucer in front of her and presenting it to Nick. “Here, taste it.”

  Nick’s eyes turned almost black with desire as he fixed Tiffany with an unblinking gaze. Slowly, he leaned forward and with all due deliberation sucked her finger into his mouth. He took his tongue and swirled it around, even as he licked and then swallowed the gooey treat. “Um, you taste like brown sugar.”

  Tiffany sat mesmerized, like prey that belatedly discovered it had been captured. A warm heat started in her core, then spread in all directions—up her spine, down her throat, bursting into warmth like sun on her face; and down, lower, becoming wetness. Her breath caught and her nipples hardened. The caramel was long gone, but Nick continued to suck, as if her finger was a lifeline and he was a drowning man. Slowly he dipped each finger of her right hand into the dessert and methodically licked its dripping treasure. When he deigned to initiate her pinkie into this ritual, some of the caramel dripped from it to her chest and oozed down into her cleavage.