Page 51 of I Think Olive You

“It’s specific to the region. The potato makes the bread softer.”

“Do you mind if I watch?” So I can spend time with you. So I can experience a bit of the culture I never got to enjoy.

Giuliana looks reluctant but shrugs. Coming up to the counter, she adds flour and yeast, swirling them together with her fingers. Once sufficiently combined she pushes the potatoes through some kind of press to deposit them out as potato bits. Better to incorporate, I suppose?

“How does this work? I’ve never seen bread made before.”

“Focaccia Pugliese is different from other kinds. We add potato which changes the consistency and gives it a more robust taste. First, I’ll make a little flour volcano and I’ll slowly add the other ingredients until it’s a dough. Then comes kneading and finally resting so it can proof. Only after all that can we put it in the oven. It’s a labor of love and worth the wait.”

My stupid heart wants me to contribute to the conversation—feel it flow between us—but the extent of my cooking knowledge is that episode of Schitt’s Creek where they’re arguing about what it means to “fold in the cheese.” What does it mean to fold in the cheese?

Giuliana adds the potato and then the rest of the ingredients. Her hands work the dough until it’s incorporated enough to move around the work station. Sprinkling some more flour on the worktop, the dough ball glistens from the water and olive oil on its surface.

The silence should be awkward—hell, I’m standing watching her knead dough—mere feet between us. But it’s the most delicious feeling being this close.

“About the other night—” she starts.

“I’m sorry. I put you in an uncomfortable position and it wasn’t right. I should have consulted you on all of it. Getting caught up in stuff is a bad habit of mine, but it’s not an excuse.”

Her hands still, and she looks up at me. Her eyes are naked, her mouth soft, and I wish I could close the distance between us. I’d kill to kiss away the uncertainty I see there—the conflict of the chasm between us.

“Where did you go?”

“Umberto. He called Arturo and tried to move our harvest date. Thankfully Arturo had the foresight to call the grove to confirm before he did. It could have been a disaster.”

Fatigue sits in the hollows under her eyes and I want nothing more than to take all this away.

“I’m getting so sick of that motherfucker.”

“Matteo!” she admonishes, her hands gripping the dough.

“I mean it. Something’s got to be done.”

Giuliana nods. “I’ve been in contact with Arturo. Between him and Nonna, I think we have a plan. There’s still some finalizing to do, so I’ll be in and out before the harvest. Hopefully we can pull it all together without any further sabotage from his end.”

“Oh, he has no idea what’s coming. Umberto will rue the day he tried to mess with the Santoro women.”

Some of the stress melts from her shoulders at my joke and Giuliana manages a half smile. God, she’s stunning.

“The grove feels so empty when you’re not here.” It’s impossible to miss the longing in my tone. I know I’ve said too much but I can’t care anymore. We’re on borrowed time.

Heat fills her cheeks at my statement, her gaze filling with emotion before she looks away. Giuliana refocuses her efforts on the focaccia dough with renewed vigor. Saying that was stupid but I have nothing left to lose. I’m hyper aware of our breathing and the little hitch in hers before she speaks again.

“Matteo, we’re so close to the harvest. I don’t want to mess this up.”

“I know how important Abundantia is to you. I’m not going to jeopardize that.”

Giuliana’s voice is soft when she responds. “I’m not talking about the grove.”

“Lia?” Stepping up to her back, I close the distance between us—catching her between my body and the counter. We don’t touch, but I can feel the body heat coming off of her and bask in the faint scent of her skin. My lungs stretch with the desperate breath I take, hoping to imprint it onto my memory. It’s sunlight and earth soaked in the first raindrops of the season, clean linen and the tiniest hint of something floral. Giuliana smells like summer and everything I’ve been missing my whole life.

“Please. We’re friends. Everything is muddy enough as it is.” She punches into the dough as if it’s personally offended her. Hell, she’s probably picturing my face.

Her hair is tied up into a messy bun. A few errant strands escape their confines and I caress the back of her neck with my thumb, unable to keep my distance anymore. She halts, her breath catching in her throat, and her body leaning back into mine.

“Teo...” It’s choked, the words a mere wisp and I know that she feels the same way I do. The nickname was real. I didn’t imagine it that night. The implication of it spreads through me with unbearable heat. My name is on her lips and my limbs are molten honey at the sound of it. Giuliana is similarly affected. Her body melting into mine tells the truth even as she tries to deny it. Why won’t she just let herself have this?

I lean into her to whisper back, to exorcize some of the yearning threatening to drag me under. “I can’t stop thinking about you. You haunt me. The feel of your skin, the sound of your moans. I remember it all and it’s torture.”

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