by Teri Wilson
“Thanks.” She looked almost bashful. That hidden smile and those pink cheeks, coupled with the smear of white chocolate frosting on her forehead and that creative mind she possessed, was enough to bring Leo to his knees with desire.
He’d had about enough. Even if he crossed the river and made a quick trip to the Vatican, and the Pope somehow managed to miraculously cure his chocolate allergy, he was done. No more competing. At least not against Juliet. He was ready to end this whole feud once and for all.
“I had no idea they taught sculpting at Le Cordon Bleu.” She nodded at his project.
It was a replica of one of Italy’s most well-known treasures—Michelangelo’s David—carved from a solid block of chocolate. The head, face and shoulders were pretty much done, but he still had a good deal of work to do on the rest.
“They don’t.” Leo smiled. “I did a fair bit of sculpting at La Maison.”
None as complicated as what he was attempting with the David statue. Not even close. At least he had some experience, though. With any luck, he’d make it through the first day of the contest and survive to compete on day two. If he could manage whatever the cooking challenge might be on the second day without consuming a morsel of chocolate, it would be a flat-out miracle. But he’d deal with that bridge when he came to it.
“Well, it looks great.” Juliet pushed a wisp of hair from her eyes and ended up with another swipe of frosting on her face. Her cheek this time. Adorable.
He focused his attention back on his replica of David. “So long as his head doesn’t topple off, I’m good.”
Juliet eyed his sculpting mallet. “Don’t put ideas in my head.”
The naughty minx. “Watch yourself. That mallet could really do a number on a wedding cake. You know, if it were to fly out of my hand. Accidentally.”
“Accidentally?” She narrowed her gaze. “You know what Freud said about accidents, right?”
“Refresh my memory.”
“He said there are no accidents. My mother says the same thing. No accidents. Only fate. So watch your grip on that mallet, mister.”
He slid it away from Juliet, just to be on the safe side. “Will do. Tell me, though. What do you suppose Freud would have had to say about the rest of our situation? I can venture a guess as to your mother’s opinion, but what about our friend Freud?”
She flushed. “I’m not sure I’d want to know. The mind reels, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed it does, Miss Arabella.” He shot her a wink.
He didn’t want to contemplate what Freud would say. He couldn’t even make sense of it himself, and he was neck deep in it.
Juliet flipped her standing mixer to on, and the noise it created put an end to any further conversation. Just as well. He still had quite a great deal of work to do on chocolate David. Those six-pack abs weren’t going to carve themselves.
Leo lost himself in the work. For that he was grateful. He couldn’t very well go all day wondering if he would suddenly stop breathing, nor could he give into his urge to simply stand there and stare at Juliet. Watching her was fascinating. The slightest twist of her slender wrist as she iced her cake was enough to render him spellbound. He could see a world of radiance in that tiniest of movements.
And that cake. It was like nothing Leo had ever seen. Nothing at Le Cordon Bleu or La Maison had come close to the intricacy she was busy weaving beside him. By the time it was finished, she’d crafted a replica of the Altare della Patria so exact that there was no doubt in Leo’s mind who would win the first round of the competition.
“I should probably pack my knives and go,” he said as they made their way to the courtyard where judging would commence.
Juliet laughed. “This isn’t Top Chef. And only half us are going home, remember? The rest of us will still have another complete day of competition.”
Leo was well aware. He couldn’t have dreaded Day Two of the Roma Festa del Cioccolato more. Gladiators who’d headed to the Colosseum back in the day likely looked forward to their fate with greater enthusiasm. Today’s competition was judged nearly exclusively on artistic merit, but tomorrow’s round was all about taste. If he was still around tomorrow. He had no idea what to expect, as the rules varied from year to year. Sometimes the competitors were asked to create a recipe using a list of certain ingredients. In other years, there was one central ingredient that was required to be featured, but chefs could use whatever other ingredients they desired. And, yes, sometimes it was a blind taste challenge like the one from the Napa Valley Chocolate Fair.
He was banking on options one or two. Obviously. He didn’t much care what he had to do, so long as it wasn’t another taste challenge.
As they stepped from the confines of the building into the cool mist of the courtyard, Juliet’s footsteps slowed. She peered up at him. “Good luck, Leo.”
The self-control it took not to kiss her at that moment was staggering. “Thank you. Good luck to you, too.”
He touched her hand with the slightest graze of his fingertips. For the barest of seconds, he felt it. The fire of connection. Every bit as real as it had been on the balcony the night before.
Then she pulled away from him. And she was walking toward the silver wheeled cart that held her cake. The flash of a camera went off. Leo blinked, and when the stars cleared from his vision he saw Juliet’s mother staring at him. Her mouth was a perfect O of surprise. The camera in her hands wobbled for a second, and he thought she might drop it right on top of Juliet’s cake.
Then, as quickly as she’d been thrown off guard, she recovered. Her face changed into its usual mask of cool indifference. Her lip curled in disgust ever so slightly before she looked away.
The woman despised him. Maybe more so now than ever before, since he’d turned up in Rome.
But he couldn’t worry about such things now. The judges were already milling about, moving from one entry to the next. Leo took his place beside his sculpture, ready to answer questions and discuss his entry. But none of the three judges acknowledged him with more than a polite smile and nod.
This is not looking good.
He took a deep breath. The courtyard no longer smelled of lemons as it had earlier. The overwhelming aroma of chocolate hung in the air. Leo took a bigger inhale. He still loved that smell, probably always would.
“Signore e signori. Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the first round judging of the Roma Festa del Cioccolato,” the head judge said in a booming voice that rose to the tops of the umbrella pines looming overhead and threatened to topple Leo’s chocolate David off its pedestal.
Leo shot a glance at the audience, which seemed to be filled mostly with members of the media. But sure enough, he spotted Uncle Joe in the first row reserved for spectators. He looked drawn and worried, and just pale enough to take the edge off Leo’s lingering anger. In fact, a flicker of genuine worry passed through Leo until he realized that Uncle Joe had parked himself directly beside Juliet’s mother. There they were—the Mezzanottes and the Arabellas, side by side, taking up the entire row.
Why they insisted on hating one another at such close range was a mystery Leo would never understand.
“The judges have evaluated the entries of the artistic round of competition. The competitors with the top five scores will move on to round two of competition tomorrow.”
Leo took a look around. He was one of ten competitors. Half would move on, the other half would be finished.
“Those five, in no particular order, are Enzo St. Lucia, Arnaud Beaulieu, Carla Agostoni, Juliet Arabella and Leonardo Mezzanotte.”
Leo allowed himself to exhale. Of course his name would be called last. The seemingly unending millisecond between hearing Juliet’s name and hearing his own had shaved at least a year off his life. He hadn’t realized quite how much he wanted to win this thing until he’d thought he w
as out of it.
He grinned. He wasn’t out of it. Not yet. And now his odds had increased from one in ten to one in five. He just might be able to pull off a win, after all.
The relief had barely begun to take form in Leo’s mind, wasn’t yet fully crystallized, when the judge spoke again. “Round Two of competition will commence tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. This year, the taste portion of the Roma Festa del Cioccolato will consist of a blind taste test. Buona sera, signore e signori. And to our competitors, in bocca al lupo!”
In bocca al lupo.
Leo hadn’t heard that saying in years. It was the traditional Italian way of imparting good luck and had always been a favorite saying of his father’s. Literally translated, it meant into the wolf’s mouth.
A blind taste test.
In bocca al lupo.
Leo’s chest grew tight, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe in a way that he knew had nothing to do with his chocolate allergy. Into the wolf’s mouth, indeed.
* * *
Juliet focused every bit of her concentration on twirling her pasta around her fork. Cacio e pepe, a traditional Roman dish, perfectly simple and consisting of only three ingredients—homemade pasta, cracked black pepper and pecorino cheese. Growing up, she’d known it as Italian macaroni and cheese, and for as long as she could remember, she’d wanted to eat it in Italy.
Unfortunately, the experience wasn’t quite as idyllic as she’d always imagined it since her mother was glaring at her from across the table.
“Juliet. What is Leo Mezzanotte doing here in Rome? Explain.”
Juliet winced. As did her father, Alegra and Nico. On any given day, her mother could out-shrill the best of them. But right now, she’d ventured into nails-on-a-chalkboard territory.
“Now, dear, try to relax. We’re having a nice family dinner in Italy. Salute!” Her father raised his glass of wine in a feeble attempt at a toast.
Paralyzed by her mother’s death glare, no one else at the table moved a muscle.
“Juliet,” she screeched. A flock of pigeons picking at crumbs on the cobblestones of the outdoor café where they were having dinner took flight and scattered.
For the first time in her life, Juliet longed to be a pigeon. “Leo is here competing in the chocolate contest. Just as I am. He’s a chocolatier. Is it really so shocking?”
Nico’s eyes widened. Alegra choked on her Chianti.
Juliet stabbed at her pasta again. Yes, she supposed she was being uncharacteristically bold. But since they’d left the cooking school, no one had said a word about her cake. Not a single word.
Did they have any idea how hard she’d worked on that cake? She’d thought of little else for weeks. She’d poured her heart and soul into that cake. It was more than just a pile of chocolate, sugar and flour. It was her heart wrapped up in creamy white frosting.
“He didn’t win the Napa Valley Chocolate Fair. You did. He’s not entitled to be here.” Her mom threw her napkin on the table in disgust.
“Mom, everything is fine. I still made it to the final round, or hadn’t you noticed?” She was a finalist in one of the most prestigious chocolate competitions in the world. It was more than she could have hoped for. And yet, nothing had changed.
“Of course I noticed.” Her mother’s face softened. For a millisecond. “But so did he. And he shouldn’t even be competing.”
“She beat him once. She can do it again,” Nico said.
Her mother shook her head. “That’s not the point.”
Juliet’s dad frowned. “It’s not? Isn’t it a competition? Isn’t that why we’re here? To win?”
Juliet dropped her fork. She couldn’t eat another bite. She’d thought things would be different in Italy. Even when she’d first bumped into Leo on the Spanish Steps, for the most fleeting of moments, she’d thought they just might be so far away from Napa Valley that the feud wouldn’t find them here.
She looked up at the swirling blue Italian sky. Same moon, same stars as back home.
Same problems.
“Actually, no. Winning is not why I came here,” she said softly.
Juliet’s mother narrowed her gaze. “Did you know Leonardo Mezzanotte was going to be here? Tell the truth.”
“Does it really matter? In the grand scheme of life, does any of this really matter?” She didn’t wait for an answer.
Ignoring the shocked expressions of her family members, she folded her napkin into a neat square and laid it beside her half-eaten meal. Then, for the first time her in her life, Juliet Arabella stood up and walked away from her family.
* * *
She couldn’t sleep.
The peal of church bells drifting in through her open window told Juliet it was well past midnight, but she couldn’t bring herself to close her eyes. Her body hummed with adrenaline. Whether she was nervous about the pending conclusion of the Roma Festa del Cioccolato, or simply still riding the high of finally refusing to take her mother’s bait, she wasn’t sure.
There had been knocks at her door. Her cell phone had rung. Several times. She’d ignored every single knock and call, choosing instead to take a nice bubble bath and order a split of Prosecco from room service. Then she’d watched Roman Holiday on television. In Italian.
Basically, she’d done the sort of things she’d always thought she would do in Italy. Well, what she could do in the wee hours of the morning. Without Leo.
Leo.
She couldn’t stop thinking about him. Which was not good. Not good at all. She may have come to Rome because she needed to make a change, but she was certain he was here for one thing and one thing only—to win the chocolate competition. He’d been to Rome before. Numerous times. He’d been away from Napa Valley for years, seeing the world, doing things Juliet had only dreamed about. He wasn’t here to fulfill some lifelong dream, unless that dream was winning the Roma Festa del Cioccolato.
The church bells rang again, and this time Juliet counted them. One, two, three, four, five. Five in the morning. Her alarm was set to go off in less than two hours. She had to get some sleep.
She reached into her bag for the book she’d started reading on the long flight over from California. But instead of her library book, she accidentally pulled out her grandmother’s recipe book. She held it and ran her fingertips over the worn cover, wondering what her grandmother would think about things if she were here in Rome. Would she still be angry at Donnatella Mezzanotte, even after all these years? Or would she have forgiven by now? When she’d opened up shop across the street from her former best friend, her sorella, did she have any idea what she was starting? Years of name-calling. Years of hatred. Years of competition. It was still happening. And now Juliet and Leo were the ones squaring off against one another.
She opened the book and flipped through its pages, letting her gaze wander over the familiar recipes. Mexican chocolate sheet cake. Orange ginger white chocolate disks. Dark cappuccino chocolate candy. Chocolat chaud.
She blinked.
Chocolat chaud?
She sat up straight in the bed, her eyes straining to focus in the semidarkness of her hotel room. Convinced she was seeing things, she flipped on the light on the bedside table.
She wasn’t seeing things. There at the top of the page, in handwriting that wasn’t her grandmother’s, wasn’t faded with age, were the words Chocolat Chaud. Only one person could have written it there.
Leo.
Juliet sat and stared at the page in disbelief. Her hands shook so hard, the book nearly slipped from her grasp.
The entire recipe was written out in careful script with exact measurements down to an eighth of a teaspoon. He’d even included the brand names for the ingredients. And right at the bottom of the list was the one thing that had managed to elude her for so long. The secret ingredie
nt.
Fleur de sel, packaged by Le Guerandais. A special sea salt harvested by hand from the South Brittany region of France.
Sea salt, just as she’d suspected. Although she never would have gotten the specifics right.
A lump formed in her throat. The words began to swim before her eyes until she could barely make out the journal notation that Leo had written in the margin, just like the notes her grandmother had made. It included the date—from approximately three weeks ago—which Juliet instinctively recognized as the night they’d first made love back in Napa Valley. And beneath it, he’d written just one short sentence.
On this date, a Mezzanotte fell for an Arabella and tried to make things right.
She ran her fingertips over the words, wanting to touch them and make sure they were real, lest they disappear before her eyes. When had he done this? And how was it possible that she’d had this beautiful gesture in her hands all this time and never known?
She remembered waking late that night, finding Leo in the kitchen cooking for the dogs and his gaze snagging momentarily on the book. She’d thought he’d felt the presence of all those words standing between them, as she had. Words from so many years ago.
But she’d been wrong. He’d written a new ending to their story.
Before he’d passed out at the chocolate fair, before everyone knew their secret, before George Alcott had so ceremoniously ripped up the Mezzanotte-Royal Gourmet contract, Leo had given her his recipe. A sacrificial gift to make peace between their families.
So much had happened since that night.
If only she’d known.
23
Leo arrived at the cooking school the next morning for the competition, knowing full well that he was about to go down in flames. Big flames. Spectacular flames. Flames that could probably be seen all the way from Napa Valley.
As preoccupied as he was with the humiliation that loomed, and the fact that once he returned to Napa, he would have no job, no family business, no future to speak of, he couldn’t help but notice that Juliet seemed uncharacteristically pensive.
