Page 67 of Rules Of Engagement: St. Louis
“You don’t remember? You were the best date I’d ever had, and I wanted more, and I still do.”
We stared at each other, and I saw her shiver. She blinked and pulled her eyes back down to the garden. She cleared her throat.
“You learned so much during your back and forth.”
I continued to stare at her, wanting to press what I hoped I wasn’t imagining, these heartfelt emotions. But I swallowed my needs and stayed in her comfortable line of conversation.
“I met Giuseppe, and I wish you could’ve met her, too.”
Her lips spread into a tiny smile. “Me, too.”
“Next time I won’t wait so long to ask you on a date out of the country.”
She glanced back at me, and I reached for her. She took my hand, and I pulled her close.
“You don’t have to promise me you’ll go. I’ll bug you about it later.”
She laughed and we walked back to the kitchen to find the moka pot gurgling and hissing on the stove. The smell of brewing espresso filled the space.
“It’s working,”Naomi said, sounding surprised.
“You sound shocked that you successfully made coffee.”
“I’m shocked I successfully made Italian coffee. There’s a difference.”
I pulled eggs from the refrigerator while she rinsed the herbs. “Frittata, okay?”
“Idon’t know what that is, but sure.”
“It’s an Italian omelet. But fluffier, and you finish it in the oven.”
“Show me.”
We worked together with her cracking eggs while I heated olive oil in a cast-iron pan. The way we sync with every ingredient added brought pleasure to my soul and I could see us, far beyond this moment doing this on a regular basis.
“How many eggs?”she asked.
“Six. We’re not eating again until we’re home.”
I whisked the eggs while she chopped herbs with focus. “You’re very precise,”I said.
“I like things done right.”
“Even cooking?”
“Of course. If I’m going to do it, I want to do it well.”
I added the herbs to the eggs, along with salt, pepper, and grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. “Taste this.”
I held the spoon to her lips, watching her expression as she tasted the mixture.
“That’s really good.”
The frittata went into the oven while we made bruschetta. Simple bread, rubbed with garlic, drizzled with olive oil, and topped with tomatoes.
The espresso was impeccable, strong, and aromatic, with that layer of crema that marked Italian brewed coffee. We ate on the terrace with the morning sun warming our faces, and the valley spread out below us like a painting.
“This is the best breakfast I’ve ever had,”Naomi said.
