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But that dress. It’s a tease and promise in one, wrapping her curves like a fucking present.
The neckline runs horizontally almost to her shoulder points, hiding her collarbones in a way that draws attention to them. I want to sink my teeth there.
The idea snaps me into even deeper resentment. Fuck.
“The branzino is regularly on rotation, so you’re welcome to make a reservation anytime.” I try to intimidate the blond—what was her name again?—with another glower. Shit, I need to get this boiling blood under control, or this place will reach a new milestone by hitting rock bottom rather than achieving perfection.
“So what is it you suppose you can do for us?” I turn to Gina, but focus my gaze above her shoulders, avoiding her eyes.
Inhale.One. Two. Exhale. Three. Four.
In the brief silence, she opens and closes her fists a few times. Phillip fidgets beside me and the blond darts her eyes between us as if she is following a tennis match. The air zaps with energy so foul I think the consommé I’ve just cooked is turning sour in the kitchen.
Gina lets out a long breath and raises her chin slightly, meeting my eyes. “While the criteria to receive a Michelin star are elusive, it’s been recognized by industry leaders that it surrounds the quality of ingredients and products, the chef’s mastery, taste of the food, value for money and the overall consistency of the food and dining experience.”
Her voice wavers a bit at the beginning, but she quickly becomes very professional and clearly knowledgeable. “Some say it’s a meticulously clean kitchen and staff that pay careful attention to detail. We believe that there is potential here to get noticed by the inspectors, but a few things might need improvement.”
The sound of her accent, slightly singing some syllables, resonates in me like the most beautiful symphony, which only pisses me off more. Now I’m going to get a boner hearing a woman speak. Fuck me!
“I have a James Beard Award and a restaurant booked solid for weeks in advance. What else is there to improve?”
The blond jumps in. “Your restaurant needs to get noticed by the inspectors. This could be accelerated by strategic reputation building through a collaboration with bloggers, food writers and food publications. That is certainly an area we could help you with.”
Phillips nods. “That sounds like something we have been neglecting, for sure.”
“I don’t need to schmooze some young selfie takers who don’t know the difference between consommé and broth to prove myself.” I spit the words so loudly my throat chafes.
Gina winces but recovers quickly. “Some believe the chef’s personality in the cuisine is one of the criteria. To stand out, to be unique. It seems your personality could only poison the patrons.”
Phillip sucks in the air and the blond steps backward, but Gina keeps her chin up, challenging me to argue with her. Miraculously, for the first time in my life, the fucking breath counting delivers and my heart rate regulates.
With the serenity of a monk, I look her up and down. “If that’s your opinion of my culinary art, I don’t think there is a point in discussing a collaboration.”
I whip around and force myself to walk to the kitchen with grace, all the while wanting to scream.
“Come on, Massi, what the hell?” Phillip dashes in behind me.
“I fucking hate blue!”
* * *
Gina
Silence descends as the two men disappear into the kitchen. Before the door swings closed, Phillip gestures to us to wait with an apology, or imminent diarrhea, all over his handsome face.
I inhale, surprised I can breathe, but that is the only movement that I’m capable of. My body is paralyzed by the sheer amount of stress and the effort to act like a reasonably functioning adult for the past few minutes.
“Do you want to explain, or are we going to pretend this is all about you wearing what clearly is his least favorite color?”
Chair legs screech behind me and I turn as Mila sags into it.
“I don’t know what his problem is.” The intensity of his reaction leaves me confused. What is his problem? If I don’t count the unfortunate wake, we haven’t seen each other in ages. Holding a grudge for this long is ridiculous. Or telling. And the fact that my body aches for him is just plain annoying.
“But you forgot to mention you know him.” Mila studies me, pursing her lips, and her eyes narrow as if she can see the truth in me by squinting.
“We went to the same high school.”
And being the friend she is, she doesn’t ask any more. But judging by the gasp she uttered when she laid eyes on Massimo earlier, she gathered enough already. The truth is wilder than even her imagination could conjure though.
