What Love Tastes Like. Zuri Day

few seconds, her attempt at sophistication failed her. Because the truth of the matter was that she was a bumpkin, albeit a city one, who’d never been anywhere like this before. She looked from the beautifully set tables to the beautiful people occupying them, listened to the soft sounds of classical music providing the subtlest of backdrops for erudite conversations and, she imagined, more than a few declarations of love. The place oozed romanticism as well as wealth. Tiffany felt like Cinderella, her crystal-covered sandals as close to a glass slipper as Tiffany needed. She only hoped her dress wouldn’t disintegrate at midnight, unless it was at the hands of the prince sitting across from her.

      Nick sat back and watched Tiffany. Her unsophisticated wonder captivated him, made him feel good. Her energy was so unlike Angelica’s, who’d become bored with Rome and increasingly unappreciative of the city’s cuisine. “I’m not crazy about it,” she’d said of Riatoli’s signature scallop dish, the one Tiffany had come to copy and conquer. But where Angelica had become jaded and taken life’s luxuries for granted, Tiffany soaked them up with the appreciation due them. Nick was overcome with the desire to be the one who introduced her to the finer things in life, to his world. He was about to tell her so when Tiffany’s eyes widened and dimples rippled with the smile that broke across her face.

      One glance at her mentor walking in their direction and excitement replaced Tiffany’s nervousness. This was the man who was going to fill her with the knowledge that would bring her closer to her dreams. “Chef Riatoli!” she whispered, when he stopped at her table.

      Chef smiled at her but addressed Nick first. “Signore Rollins. It is my pleasure.”

      “As always, Emilio, the pleasure is mine.” Nick looked at Tiffany and ignored the stab of jealousy that arose at the adoring way she stared at Emilio. “I believe you know my dining companion, Tiffany Matthews?”

      “Indeed I do,” Chef Riatoli said. “It is a thoughtful student who tests the dishes she’ll attempt to master.” He finally turned to Tiffany. “Welcome to Roma.”

      “Thank you, Chef. I hope you don’t mind my coming to your dining room instead of the kitchen on this first visit.”

      “In the company of one of my best customers? Never!”

      Chef Riatoli and Nick conversed a moment more before the sommelier joined them to discuss the wine list. “I’ll leave you to this expert,” Chef Riatoli finished. “But may I suggest the veal for your main course tonight? It’s exquisite, grown especially for our kitchen.”

      “We’ll take your suggestions for the entire meal,” Nick countered easily. Before turning to the sommelier, Nick looked at Tiffany. “Do you prefer sweet or dry?”

      “I’m not much of a drinker,” she concluded honestly. “You decide.”

      Nick and the sommelier settled on a Dom Perignon Rosé, to start, as the waiter brought out a basket of focaccia, fresh from the oven. The flat bread was golden brown, topped with fresh tomatoes, basil, and olive oil, and a bowl of red caviar.

      Over the next two and half hours, Tiffany learned about the man named Dominique “Nick” Rollins and ate the best food she’d ever tasted in her life. In between the perfectly cooked scallop appetizer, raw oysters on the half shell (which Tiffany loved, to her surprise), smoked mozzarella salad, and the palate-cleansing chilled celery soup, Tiffany learned about Nick’s latest venture, a boutique hotel, and their shared dream of owning a five-star eatery with a three-star Michelin rating—the highest rating awarded by this industry bible, and a difficult score to achieve. During the fifth and sixth courses, braised monk-fish followed by the medium-rare veal that tasted like ambrosia and melted in their mouths, Nick learned that Tiffany was an only child with an independent streak, a college graduate with a near four-point average, and a delicious mix of contradictions—a feisty woman with a childlike need for the security of a twenty-three-year-old teddy bear. While not spending much time talking about her parents, Tiffany showed open admiration for her grandmother, who’d encouraged her love of cooking. The food Nick and Tiffany ate was accompanied by a chilled Chardonnay, and later a mellow Cabernet Sauvignon. Though she’d only had one glass of each, Tiffany was feeling as warm and fuzzy as Tuffy by the time dessert arrived. The gelato-based treat was a Chef Riatoli original, and the alcohol Tiffany had consumed was the only logical explanation for how Nick’s caramel-covered finger, which he’d dipped in the sweet masterpiece, ended up in her mouth.

      6

      “Um, it’s delicious.” Tiffany moaned as the mix of cool Italian ice cream danced with the warmth of the melted caramel sliding down Nick’s long, thick index finger.

      Nick had initiated the playful moment, almost daring Tiffany to loosen up by tasting Emilio’s creation from this digit. But once again, Tiffany surprised him, this time with an unexpected show of boldness. The tables turned unexpectedly, and it now seemed as if Tiffany might beat him at his own game. He covered his growing ardor, and discomfort, with humor. “Yes, but how’s the dessert?”

      Tiffany finished licking the caramel off Nick’s finger, laughing as she did so. “It’s so good,” she whispered, dipping her finger into the saucer in front of her and presenting it to Nick. “Here, taste it.”

      Nick’s eyes turned almost black with desire as he fixed Tiffany with an unblinking gaze. Slowly, he leaned forward and with all due deliberation sucked her finger into his mouth. He took his tongue and swirled it around, even as he licked and then swallowed the gooey treat. “Um, you taste like brown sugar.”

      Tiffany sat mesmerized, like prey that belatedly discovered it had been captured. A warm heat started in her core, then spread in all directions—up her spine, down her throat, bursting into warmth like sun on her face; and down, lower, becoming wetness. Her breath caught and her nipples hardened. The caramel was long gone, but Nick continued to suck, as if her finger was a lifeline and he was a drowning man. Slowly he dipped each finger of her right hand into the dessert and methodically licked its dripping treasure. When he deigned to initiate her pinkie into this ritual, some of the caramel dripped from it to her chest and oozed down into her cleavage.

      “Oops,” Tiffany whispered, wishing Nick would do the obvious and come lick the sauce off her. And Nick would have probably obliged her, had not Chef Riatoli appeared at their table, breaking the magic and bringing both Nick and Tiffany out of their passion-induced fantasy and back to the private area of the restaurant where they sat.

      “Oops,” Tiffany said again, this time self-conscious of what had taken place. She hastily grabbed her napkin and wiped away what she could of the caramel down her cleavage. Her face burned with embarrassment, both at what she’d done and what Chef might have seen. What has gotten into me? For all intents and purposes, this was her place of employment, and here she was acting like a love-struck teenager out on her first date. Even as she tried to berate herself, her cootchie cooed at the very idea.

      Nick and Tiffany would never know whether or not Chef Riatoli had observed their intimate playfulness. When he arrived at their table, he was his usual self—jovial and professional. “Was dessert to your liking, sir?”

      “Perfection as always, Emilio. You’ve outdone yourself with this one.” Nick sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth. “What is it called?”

      “There’s no name, sir. I created it just now, just for you, Dominique.”

      “Perhaps you should name it after your student,” Nick said, nodding at Tiffany. “She found it…simply delicious.”

      Chef Riatoli simply smiled and bowed humbly. “Will there be coffee, an aperitif perhaps?”

      Nick did have a particular chocolate liqueur in mind, one he’d like to drink from the valley of Tiffany’s breasts. “Not tonight, Emilio. Just the check.”

      “Please, sir, consider this dinner my treat for your belated return. You always bring us luck when you come. A week after your last visit, our president dined here!”

      Nick rose and walked around to help Tiffany from her chair. “You’re a good man, Emilio