She waved her hands over her head in a universal “I have so much to do” gesture and returned to the kitchen, shooing Carlo out of the way, the whole time talking to herself. I was in love.
We sat back down. “Well, no wonder you love coming here. You’re very popular.” He smiled one of his eye-crinkling smiles. “By the way, I love Anna. I think I may want her to adopt me,” I added.
“Wait until you taste her food,” he replied.
“Is there a menu?” I said, looking around. I couldn’t see one.
“Not really. In a moment, Carlo will come and ask how hungry we are, and if we want fish or meat for secondi. Then she will cook for us.” He shrugged as if to say, “Simple.”
Carlo’s ears must have been burning. He arrived holding a tray and on the table he placed a basket of bread, a small carrier which held olive oil and vinegar, a carafe of wine—white—and two glasses. “Acqua frizzante o naturale?” he asked Jean-Luc. Even I knew what that meant, so I answered, “Naturale,” with the best Italian accent I could muster. I was rewarded with a wink. Then, as Jean-Luc had predicted, he asked how hungry we were—very—and what we wanted for our second course. We both opted for the beef and Carlo disappeared to give Anna our order.
Without tasting a bite, it was already my favourite meal in months.
Carlo returned shortly with our water. I picked up a piece of bread, pulled off a chunk, and dunked it in the olive oil. I popped the bite into my mouth and groaned.
“I told you, even the bread is good here. She makes it fresh every morning. But it’s a trap, because everything else is even better and you will not want to fill up on the bread.”
I nodded as I stuffed another bite into my mouth. I swallowed. “Noted. Please put that,” I said, pointing to the scrumptious bread, “as far from me as possible.”
“No self-control?” he teased. I wiped around my mouth with my fingertips. Was that a loaded question?
“When it comes to bread, no. Other things, I am better at controlling myself.” He poured the wine.
“What ‘other things’ do you mean?” He threw me a look, held up his wine in a half-toast, then took a sip. Oh, yes, he was definitely flirting. Game on, Monsieur Caron.
“Well, when it comes to resisting the charms of ridiculously handsome men who speak several languages and travel the world for work, which is incredibly interesting and important, men who are close with their families and have adorable nieces, I can control myself.”
He nodded and stroked his chin, mock seriousness playing across his face. “I see. But bread?”
“Oh no. Bread is my kryptonite. I can’t even have it in the house.” It was a lie, but he didn’t know that.
“Mmm, I understand. And it is quite specific, this type of man you are so practised in resisting.”
“Well, they’re everywhere. It’s simply a matter of survival.”
“Ah, yes, I have heard of this epidemic of such men.”
“I have many, many friends who have fallen prey to this type of man.”
“Oh, that’s terrible.”
“It is. They’ve started a support group.” I wasn’t sure if it translated, but I was on a roll.
“Mmm, and what are the symptoms of this affliction?”
I had no intention of holding back.
“Typically, sparkling conversation, lots of flirting, smiling, laughing, some handholding, which unavoidably leads to kissing, and then the inevitable …” I let the thought trail off as I took a sip—all right, it was a slug—of wine.
“And the inevitable? That would be?” His tongue flicked out and licked his bottom lip—the same bottom lip with its name etched on a coin at the bottom of the Trevi Fountain. It almost distracted me, but I’d had enough wine by then to forge ahead.
“Oh,” I said, looking him square in the eye. “Making love, of course.”
I thought I saw him gulp. His eyes widened—just for a second, but I’d definitely scored with the “making love” part. I’d also managed to surreptitiously drop in there that handholding, something we’d already done a lot of, led to kissing. And I really wanted to kiss him—badly. And other things, naked things, but I’d be happy to start with the kissing.
Food arrived, and Jean-Luc seemed to appreciate the reprieve from my flirtatious onslaught.
“Pasta primavera,” announced Carlo as he placed two plates on the table. It smelled incredible and looked like a garden was having a party on the plate. “Mamma, she cheats a little—not spring vegetables, but a different way.” He seemed to struggle for the word, and realising we were well into autumn, I gave him the word. “Sì, yes, autumn. Is like in Italian. Pasta autunno. Enjoy!”
Having restrained myself with the bread, I had moved from hungry to bloody starving. Still, I knew there was at least one other course to come, and there was more food on the plate in front of me than I usually had for dinner, so I needed to pace myself. I swirled some pasta onto my fork and took a bite. Jean-Luc did the same. “Oh, my God,” I said, my hand covering my mouth. “That’s amazing.”
Carlo swung by the table with a fresh carafe of white wine. Had we already finished the first one? I watched as he moved with grace among the tables. It was a practised ease as he chatted with customers, brought food to the tables, took plates away, and made everyone feel at home. I never wanted to leave.
I took another bite and glanced at the clock above the kitchen. We still had two hours before I had to meet the coach. Even so, the Rome campsite was even further from the city than the Paris one was, and I didn’t want to have to pay for a cab. It would cost a mint.
It took almost as much willpower to leave some pasta on the plate as it did to stop my hand from reaching across the table and pulling the breadbasket towards me. When Carlo cleared my plate, he was concerned I hadn’t liked it. I hoped I did a good enough job of conveying A) It was delicious and B) I’m a tiny person, and even when I’m hungry, I can’t eat as much as, say, someone Jean-Luc’s size. “I will hide this from Mamma,” he said, throwing another wink my way.
I was grateful. I wanted Anna to adore me. I like being adored. Especially by tall, handsome Frenchmen. Hmm—I’d probably had enough wine.
Secondi came to the table. “Braciole,” said Carlo with a verbal flourish.
Jean-Luc groaned, and I looked across at him, amused. “It’s my favourite,” he replied without me having to ask.
“Si, si,” said Carlo, laughing. “You are Mamma’s favourite—right after me.” He made himself laugh again and left us to our braciole, thin slices of beef stuffed and rolled and baked into a red sauce. I already knew I was going to love it. It smelled like a corner of heaven.
I barely needed a knife, the meat was so tender. Jean-Luc seemed absorbed in his eating, so I left him to it. I had loved the pasta, but this dish was beyond. It may have been the best thing I’d ever eaten—it was certainly the best thing I could remember eating. We cleaned our plates with only a few utterances between us.
I sat back and took in the empty plate in front of me. It was a good thing there wasn’t going to be any “wanna come back to my place?” that night. I was stuffed. If sex had been on the table, I would have eaten two strands of tagliatelle and called it good. I would even have risked upsetting Mamma Anna, my new favourite person.