“Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something.”
I press the phone between my shoulder and ear so that I can shift Preston’s bag to my other hand. All those books weigh a ton. “It’s trying to tell me to focus on cooking, not romance. Why else would I have signed up for a program with a bunch of senior citizens? There won’t be any temptation here.”
“Senior citizens?”
Before I can tell her about the mix-up, I see Mabel on the ground with her cane beside her. Preston is kneeling next to her.
“Gotta go,” I tell Mia, then rush over to help. “Are you okay?”
Mabel’s only response is a grimace.
I glare at Preston. “What is wrong with you? Do you knock every woman you meet onto the ground?”
He helps Mabel to her feet, then guides her to a bench. “Why don’t you sit here, ma’am?”
She pats his hand. “Thank you, dear.”
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“No worse than usual,” she says sweetly.
“Do you want us to call a doctor?” I ask.
“What do I look like? An invalid?” she snaps.
I take a step back and hold my hands up. “Sorry, just trying to help.”
“Well, you can help by handing me my cane.” When I don’t move quickly enough, she shouts, “Any day now, missy.”
Before I can hand it to her, Preston grabs it. “I didn’t knock her down,” he says to me before presenting the cane to the older woman. “Here you go, ma’am.”
“Thank you, dear. You’re such a nice boy.”
Preston looks back at me. “What are you doing with my bag?”
“You left it at the registration desk. I offered to bring it to you.” I thrust it in his hands. “Mission accomplished,” I say before storming off. This better be the last time I ever set eyes on that man again.
* * *
After a restless night, I wake early the next morning. Giuseppe is perched on the pillow next to me. He looks well rested, as usual. Teddy bears are kind of like cats—they spend their days lounging around napping. Minus the drool, of course, which is a huge selling point. Not to mention eliminating the need for a litter box. Why would anyone have a cat when they could have a stuffed animal to cuddle up with instead?
“I wish I could bring you to class with me,” I say. “But I don’t want to get flour and tomato sauce on you. Remember the last time I had to put you in the washing machine? I learned an important lesson that day—leftover Chinese food and teddy bears don’t mix.”
I hit the breakfast buffet before class starts. Italians typically start their mornings simply, usually a coffee drink, like a latte or a cappuccino, accompanied by some bread, butter, and jam, or a pastry. But for the Silver Fox participants, the staff has gone all out with a huge array of baked goods, cold cuts, cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, yogurt, and fresh fruit.
Although I should probably eat lightly considering all the food we’ll be sampling in class today, I pile a bit of everything onto my plate. As they say, when in Rome, or in my case, when in Ravenna. As I sip the last of my coffee, I think about my encounter with Preston yesterday. He was definitely flirting with me at the registration desk, but when I returned his satchel to him later, he wasn’t nearly as friendly. What was that all about?
I glance at my phone and see the time. Crap, I’m going to be late. I deposit my dirty dishes at the service station, then rush through the gardens to the kitchen annex, which is located at the rear of the grounds. As I push open the door, I nearly collide into a walker belonging to one of the Silver Foxes. I skirt around it and look at the large room in front of me. It has an industrial feel with exposed ductwork and pipes. Sunlight pours in through the large windows on either side of the room. At the front is a large cooking station on an elevated platform. There are smaller stations positioned throughout the room—each with a butcher block counter, sink, stove, oven, and two stools. All the stools are occupied, except for the ones at the station at the rear of the room.
I set my purse on the counter, then slip onto one of the vacant stools. The silver-haired woman in front of me turns and smiles. “Well, hello, dear,” Loretta says. “Nice to see you again. Looks like we’re neighbors.”
Mabel is sitting next to her, her cane leaning against the counter. “Shush,” she says. “The instructor is talking.”
“No, she isn’t,” Loretta says. “She’s writing something on the whiteboard. The class hasn’t started yet.”
“Yes, it has,” Mabel retorts.
“No, it hasn’t.”
“Yes—”
Loretta cuts off Mabel and points at the empty stool next to me. “You can always move, you know.”
Mabel narrows her eyes. “Maybe I will.”
Great, just what I need, Mabel sitting next to me. I can’t imagine anything worse.
While the older woman reaches for her cane, I hear a deep voice behind me. “Is anyone sitting here?”
I don’t have to turn to see who it is. The scent is unmistakable—leather and pine.
“Oh, it’s Professor Whitaker,” Mabel says brightly. She nudges Loretta. “This is the nice young man who helped me last night.”
He sits next to me. “Good morning, ladies,” he says, oozing charm. “How did everyone sleep?”
“Soundly,” Loretta says.
“I woke up alive,” Mabel says. “That’s always reassuring.”
Preston turns to me, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “And how about you? How was your night?”
“Just swell,” I say, hoping he can’t see the dark circles under my eyes. Dark circles caused by tossing and turning while thinking about him. What is he doing here, anyway?
The woman at the front of the room clears her throat. She has a Sophia Loren look about her—glossy dark hair, stunning eyes, and a voluptuous figure that her white chef’s coat can’t hide. “Welcome, everyone,” she says with a soft Italian accent. “My name is Maria and I’ll be your instructor for the next four weeks. It looks like you’ve all found places to sit. If you don’t already know the person sitting next to you, go ahead and introduce yourselves. You’ll be cooking partners for the rest of the program.”
I glance at Preston. Surely, he isn’t here for the program. This has got to be some sort of mistake.
He holds out his hand as though we haven’t met before. “Allow me to introduce myself. Preston Whitaker.”
I look at his hand, then back up at his piercing blue eyes, then back to his hand. There’s no way I’m going to clasp his hand. Handshakes shouldn’t make you tingle. These handshakes of his are dangerous.
He chuckles while still holding out his hand. “This is where you tell me your name.”
“You already know it—Ginny.”
“Nice to meet you,” he says, grabbing my hand and giving it one of his patented, tingle-inducing handshakes, before whispering in my ear, “I think I have the prettiest cooking partner in the room.”
I pull my hand back. “Cooking partner? You?”
He nods. “Yes. I’m sitting in on this course. It was one of the reasons why I agreed to teach the history program later in the summer. I’ve always wanted to learn to cook Italian food. This is the perfect opportunity.” He hands me an apron. “Blue’s a good color for you.”
I look at the apron. It’s the exact shade of Preston’s eyes. I shake my head. Must stop thinking about his eyes. I place the apron back on the counter. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” I say, grabbing my purse.
“Where are you going?”
“To get a refund.”
I practically run back to the villa, wincing in pain as my ankle reminds me that it’s still recovering from its injury.
Evelyn is sitting at the table tapping away at her computer.
“I changed my mind,” I say. “You were right. The cooking program isn’t for me.”
She frowns. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. The program has already started.”
> “It only started fifteen minutes ago. I haven’t even tried on my apron.” I pull my wallet out of my purse. “Do you need my credit card to issue the refund?”
Instead of answering, she opens a file folder and pulls out the registration form I signed last night. She turns to the last page and points at my initials. “Unfortunately, we can’t issue refunds after the program has started. It’s in the terms and conditions here.”
I take a deep breath, then smile. “Are you sure there isn’t anything you can do? Like you said, the program is better suited for seniors.”
She shakes her head. “Sorry.”
I stuff my wallet back in my purse and spin around without another word. As I slowly walk back to the kitchen annex, I try to cool down. How am I going to get through the next four weeks with Preston as my cooking partner?
When I walk back in the room, Maria is demonstrating how a pasta machine works. I set my purse on the counter and grab my apron.
“Couldn’t get a refund?” Preston whispers.
I tie the apron around my waist without responding.
He grins. “Guess you’re stuck with me for the next four weeks.”
5
Salmonella
After Maria demonstrates how to roll dough through the pasta maker, making it thinner and thinner with each pass, she holds up a laminated piece of paper. “You should have one of these on your workstation. It’s a simple recipe for making pasta dough. All you’ll need is flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt, which you can find on the shelf underneath your workstation. Why don’t you go ahead and grab those now, then I’ll walk you through how to make the dough.”
Mabel gasps as Loretta places their ingredients on their workstation. “These eggs aren’t refrigerated. If we eat them, we’ll get salmonella poisoning.” She raises her cane in the air and waves it back and forth, nearly decapitating her friend in the process. “Watch out,” she warns everyone within earshot. “They’re trying to kill us!”
I lean forward. “The eggs are fine. They haven’t been refrigerated previously, so they’re safe to eat.”
Mabel spins around on her stool and pokes me with her cane. “No, they’re not.”
I grab the end of her cane. “They’re fine, really.”
She tries to yank it back, but I hold on firmly, worried that she’ll inadvertently knock our bag of flour over.
“Listen, missy, if I say we’re going to get salmonella, then we’re going to get salmonella. End of story.”
She tugs at her cane again. Boy, the woman can play a fierce game of tug-of-war.
“Why don’t you give me the cane?” Preston places his hand on top of mine. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he says with a wink. I’m not sure who the wink is directed at. Probably Mabel, because she smiles brightly at him. I let go of the cane and he guides it safely across our workstation back to her.
“Thank you, young man.”
Preston smiles at her. “Did you know that if you don’t wash fresh eggs after you collect them, you can safely leave them unrefrigerated? When you wash them, you remove the protective coating that prevents contamination from getting through the tiny pores in the shells.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she says, giving him an incredulous look.
“In the States, factory eggs are washed so they have to be refrigerated afterwards to ensure that they’re safe. But these are unwashed farm eggs, so they’re safe to leave out at room temperature. You’ll find lots of eggs sold in Italy this way.”
She furrows her brow. “So, no salmonella?”
“Nope.”
She beams at him. “You’re so smart.” Then she looks at Loretta and me. “He’s smart, isn’t he? We’re lucky to have a distinguished professor in our class.”
“He’s a history professor,” I say. “Not an egg professor. Besides, I told you the same thing about the eggs being safe to eat two minutes ago. How come you believe him and not me?”
“You have to study a lot to become a professor,” Mabel says, looking at me like I’m stupid.
Preston bites back a smile.
“Are you a professor?” she asks me.
I shake my head.
“Are you a rocket scientist?”
“No,” I say, wondering what rockets have to do with eggs.
Preston snorts. I glare at him.
“Well then, there you go,” Mabel says, as though that explains it.
Preston scoots his stool toward me. “So what exactly do you do for a living? On the train you told me you were a chef, but clearly you aren’t.”
“I told you that I want to become a chef.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He looks bemused. “You claimed it was my earwax that caused that little misunderstanding. I should probably see a doctor about that.”
I nod crisply. “You should.”
“You still haven’t answered my question—what is it you do?”
I blurt out the first thing that pops into my mind. “I’m a manicurist.”
He glances at my hands. They don’t exactly look like the hands of a manicurist—short, unvarnished nails, and ragged cuticles. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, pulling the recipe toward me. “Now, shall we get started making our pasta dough?”
* * *
I congratulate myself on making it through an entire week of cooking side-by-side with Preston without killing him. You want to know why I want to kill him? I’ll tell you why.
Mabel thinks he walks on water. Everything he does is right, even if he cracks an egg and it ends up on the floor. Me, even if I make the perfect cannoli, she finds at least ten things wrong with it. And at least twice a day she whacks me in the shin with her cane. Sure, she claims it’s always an accident, but with that devilish gleam in her eyes, of course, I don’t believe her.
It’s not just the Mabel thing that drives me batty. That I can deal with, although I’d prefer not to have all those bruises on my legs. What it comes down to is that the man is a show-off. He’s constantly spitting out factoids, like he’s some sort of human encyclopedia. For example, just this afternoon, he’s been regaling me with an endless stream of pasta-related trivia.
“Ginny, did you know that the average Italian eats fifty-one pounds of pasta a year?”
“No, I didn’t know that, Preston.” I roll my eyes. “How fascinating. You must have the book, Making Pasta for Dummies, in your extensive library.”
He smiles brightly. My sarcasm appears to be lost on him, so he continues. “Did you know that there are more than six hundred shapes of pasta?”
“Really? I was sure it was only five hundred and ninety-seven.”
He wipes his hands on a dishtowel while he ponders this. “Well, I guess it’s possible they rounded up.” Undeterred, he continues, “Did you know that Thomas Jefferson first brought pasta to America in 1789?”
“Are you sure? I thought it was Chef Boyardee.”
Preston shudders. “Chef Boyardee. I ate way too much of that stuff as a grad student.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Cheap and quick food is the way to go when you’re a grad student. I ate a lot of ramen.”
He cocks his head to one side. “You were a grad student?”
“I was a student,” I say evasively.
“Oh, sure. You have to go to cosmetology school to be a manicurist, don’t you?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What kinds of things do you study in cosmetology school?”
“Oh, you know. The usual.”
“The usual?”
“Cuticle cream, nail clippers…um, the usual.” Drawing a blank on manicure-related topics, I quickly say, “But I don’t want to bore you. You know what I’d rather hear more about? Pasta.” I lean forward and get Mabel and Loretta’s attention. “You guys have to hear this.” I nudge Preston. “Go on, tell them what you told me about Thomas Jefferson.”
While the ladies look at him expectantly, I slip back to the pantry to grab some fresh herbs fo
r the marinade we’re making. When I get back to the workstation, practically all of the Silver Foxes are gathered around Preston.
“Go on, tell us another one,” a man in the back of the crowd shouts.
“Well, if you insist,” Preston says. “Italians eat the most pasta in the world, which I’m sure you all already know. But what you might not know is that if the pasta they ate was all spaghetti, as opposed to other shapes—”
Loretta waves her hand in the air like she’s back in school. “How many shapes of pasta were there again?”
“Six hundred,” Preston says.
I snort.
He catches my eye and smiles. “Actually, I’ve been informed by a reliable source that it’s five hundred and ninety-seven.”
One of the ladies standing next to me says, “He’s so smart, isn’t he? Do you think he’s single? I should fix him up with my granddaughter. They’d be perfect for each other.”
“I’m sure they would,” I say dryly. “You should tell him all about her once he finishes boring us with pasta facts.”
She tugs at her ear. “I think my hearing aid is acting up. It sounds like you said he was boring.”
“Sorry, I must have misspoken.” I force a laugh. “What he said about pasta meaning ‘dough pastry cake’ in Latin was fascinating.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
The enthusiasm in her voice makes me feel guilty. I really need to try to tone down the sarcasm. The Silver Foxes are enjoying hearing what Preston has to say. Just because I don’t like know-it-all history nerds like him, doesn’t mean that I should rain on this lady’s parade. She thinks he’ll be perfect for her granddaughter. I wish them all the happiness in the world.
When class ends that afternoon, Preston asks me what I’m doing over the weekend. I tell him that I’m spending it with Mia and Isabelle since they’re leaving bright and early on Monday morning.
Is it my imagination or does he look crestfallen that I already have plans?
I shake my head. Why would he be interested in me? After all, he thinks I’m a manicurist. He’d assume we have nothing in common. No, he’s probably looking forward to spending his free time cuddled up with his history books.
Smitten with Ravioli Page 5