Page 9 of Empire of Temptation

“Where is your garlic?” he asked, rummaging through the spices.

“It’s there.” I walked around the counter and found the container of garlic powder. “Here.”

He looked at the container in my hand and his upper lip curled into a sneer. “I meant yourfreshgarlic.” He selected the salt and poured some into the pot on the stove.

“Fresh garlic should be in the cooler.”

“Bring me a head.”

Not “will you,” or “can you.” Just a clear order to fetch the ingredients for him. Didn’t stop me from walking to the cooler, though.

“Anything else?” I asked over my shoulder with a heavy dose of sarcasm.

“Three chili peppers. And some parsley.”

The inside of the cooler was a mess. Vegetables were placed with no rhyme or reason, and today’s delivery hadn’t even been put away yet. I sighed. Another project for tomorrow.

I searched the shelves for Luca’s requests. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any chili peppers, only green bell, so I grabbed three along with fresh parsley.

He glared at the items in my hands. “Those are not chili peppers.”

“I couldn’t find any, so I took these. Won’t they work?”

He muttered in Italian and took the parsley. “Put those peppers back.”

I did as ordered. When I returned, he was expertly chopping parsley on a wooden cutting board. He handled the knife like a professional chef, but I was mesmerized by the muscles in his forearms as he worked. He looked strong. And competent.

Stop. He’s too old for me. And I’m not interested.

Okay, maybe I was a tiny bit interested in those forearms.

Bending, he searched below. He dangled the giant container of olive oil in his two fingers like he was holding a dead rat. “Thiswas made inTexas.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling defensive. “That is good olive oil.”

He uncapped the container and sniffed inside. “It’s shit.”

“Well, that's all we have.”

“This is your problem,” he said, drizzling some of the oil into a sauté pan. “You don’t know real food. Tell me, what is your favorite dish?”

That was easy. “Chicken Parm.”

He snorted. “Not from Italia. Next?”

It wasn’t? “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Again, not a dish from Italia.”

Now I was getting annoyed. “Then why are those dishes on every Italian menu in the world?”

He added parsley stems and cloves of garlic to the hot oil. “Not in authentic restaurants, they aren’t.” He stirred the stems and garlic with a metal spoon.

I went for my wine glass, needing something to do other than stare at this infuriating and beautiful man. “Well, here in America, we like chicken parm and spaghetti and meatballs.”

“You will like this better.” He added a fistful of spaghetti to the boiling water, then returned to the sauté pan. He removed the garlic pieces and stems, tossed them in the trash, then reached for two more garlic cloves and a grater. Like it was the easiest thing in the world, he grated the garlic into the warm oil.

I drank and watched, fascinated. Grating garlic? What magic was this?

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