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“Then can I get some wine as well?” I lift my head to look into the jade green of his eyes.
“I’m way ahead of you. I brought some Verdicchio dei Castelli di Jesi Classico Riserva,” he says in a broken but adorable Italian pronunciation.
“Wow, what does that mean?”
“No idea!” Evan replies, and we both burst into laughter.
“Great! Let’s pretend that we’re fancy, anyway. May I have some wine, sir?” I say emphatically.
“Why, of course, my lady!”
He pours some of the gorgeous white wine into two glasses and hands me one.
“So, what are we supposed to be tasting here?” I ask him.
“Hmm … let me see.” He grabs the bottle. “Notes of chamomile, yellow fruit jam, and nepitella, which will slowly give the tongue a flavor of salt. Do you feel it, Emmy?”
I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. “Mhm, sure,” I reply. “But I can’t taste any Nutella.”
He bursts out laughing and almost spits out his wine.
“Whaaat? Why are you laughing at me? What did I say??”
“Not Nutella! The wine doesn’t have notes of Nutella! Ne-pi-te-lla!” he spells out for me, still laughing.
“Yeah, that’s what I said!” I reply. “Nepi … yeah.”
He caresses my face gently with the tips of his fingers. “Nepitella is a very rare spice, something a bit like mint. In Rome, they call it Mentuccia.”
I stare at him in awe. “Do you know everything?”
“Not as much as I’d like to know…” he replies.
The tension between us seems to grow with each passing moment, and it’s not because of the tasty Italian wine.
My heart is beating fast, but my mind is indecisive.
I don’t know which direction to take this.
The conversation with Jo and Larisa is still reeling in the back of my mind. And there’s a small part of me that thinks they might have been right. Maybe I am jealous of other women being interested in Evan. And, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a small part of me that wants to explore things with him to see if there’s a … spark.
“How about dinner, then?” he says.
“Great!”
I watch as he starts to boil the pasta and get the sauce ready.
“Hm, I once had a boyfriend who tried to cook for me,” I tell him.
“Is that so? Who was that?” Evan asks.
“You remember him. That Andy guy … the one who always wore shorts, even in winter.”
“Ah, yeah! His knees must be trashed by now. Why did you break up with him again?”
I try to remember my relationship with Andy while delicious aromas spread through my kitchen. Evan throws generous handfuls of sweet black olives, garlic, and salty capers into a pool of golden-green olive oil. Immediately, my mouth starts to water as the sweet, briny smell takes over me.
“Well, he just wasn’t … what I was looking for,” I answer.
