Page 99 of Dante

And he actually puts his fingers to his lips and kisses them.

“Mamma mia,” he says. “You should taste my lasagna. My grandmother taught that to me when I was eight years old. Let me go into the kitchen and make it personally for you.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” I say, laughing as I sketch his vivid expression on paper. Every time I ask him about his grandmother’s dishes, a new expression crosses his face. Which means I’m not satisfied with one sketch of him. I end up filling my sketchpad with his image.

By the time I look up from my sketchpad, the once-bustling room is mostly empty. Waiters clean the tables while the hostess closes down her stand.

“Thank you so much for your words and your time. Do you mind if I sketch the decor? I know you have to get back to the kitchen.”

“Of course, stay, sketch, be my guest. I’ll send you out some grappa,” he says, looking at Dante. “You’ll love it. Homemade.”

Dante does indeed enjoy his grappa and phone scrolling while I sketch the charming interior of this intimate restaurant.

The sketches are good, I think to myself, looking each one over. Damn, I’m good.

“Content?” says Dante, catching me admiring my own work.

I nod. “I’m so excited to show the sketches to Professor Washington tomorrow. I can’t wait to see the expression on his face. The look of this last chef is what I’ve yearned to capture since I first conceived of the idea.”

Dante looks at me. I can’t even begin to understand the expression in his eyes. He’s smiling, but his eyes seem dead serious.

“What’s wrong, Dante? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Was I looking at you in any particular way?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “If I was a sleuth, I would say you were looking at me in a questioning way.”

He laughs. “Sorry, Gina, I didn’t mean to stare you down.”

“Then what is it? Explain what you’re thinking.”

He puts his hand on mine. “I was thinking how lucky I am to have you.”

I feel a surge of happiness. Things are finally coming together. “Right back at you, Dante.”

CHAPTER 38

GINA

“Why is it that every time I enter this cafeteria I feel like I’m locked in a Harry Potter movie?”

Chelsea, sitting beside me at one of the Academy cafeteria’s few window tables, laughs so hard she almost chokes on her iced tea.

“Love your way of looking at our East Coast architecture, California Girl. You’re right. It’s so Gothic. Vaulted ceilings, stone arches. I keep expecting gargoyles to come to life and eat me alive.”

Biscotti yips in my lap, his tiny frame squirming with excitement. He loves coming to school with me.

Chelsea reaches over to stroke his sleek black head, her fingers gentle on the white spot of fur between his eyes.

“Biscotti is so cute,” she says. “When you walked in that first day, carrying him in that fancy Louis Vuitton bag, I figured you for one of those Paris Hilton, Upper East Side types. But you’re not like that at all.”

I smile and fight the urge to ask Chelsea what I am like. Since I moved east, I feel like I’ve lost my identity. I’m still getting used to the art-student version of myself.

The one who wears jeans and oversized sweaters instead of the tailored pieces Antoine selected for my Mrs. Ricci persona.

“Do you like it here?” Chelsea asks.

“I love this academy,” I say honestly. “This Gothic fortress of creativity has become one of the best things that’s happened to me, aside from the restaurant.”