Chapter One:
From the first book in the collection, A Chocolate-Box New Year
In the intricate process of making fresh pasta, the dough has to be kneaded, rolled, and then sliced. Every morning Julie Elliot made the flour and egg base, portioned it, and stored it in her cooler. In this way, she could quickly create satisfying meals for her customers, which was of utmost importance in the restaurant business.
Consequently, it made sense that her linguine and fettuccini were the starring attractions of her Italian restaurant, The Pasta Junction. She liked that, being celebrated for her delectable pasta versus the parboil method other restaurants used.
As expected, many rival chefs told her she was foolish, because preparing pasta every day required a tremendous amount of effort. She realized that and was okay with it. She'd set her standards high and strove to serve her diners only the finest products.
On a typical busy Friday evening in mid-December, she stood by the commercial cooktop of her kitchen's workstation and stirred an enormous pot of minestrone soup. When she finished, she'd chat with patrons in the dining room. She loved people, loved interacting with them. Loved it so much, in fact, her older brother, Ben, often called her an extrovert. As a business owner, that was a good thing. Striking up conversations and conversing with her customers kept them coming back.
Because she didn't stay in the kitchen all night, she made sure she looked attractive and professional. Tonight, she'd pulled her heavy blond tresses into a tight bun, and wore her usual black slacks and a fitted collared blouse. As always, she'd tied a white apron around her slender waist.
She lowered the fire under the soup so it would simmer, then swung to the stainless steel counter to sort green beans. After a few minutes of discarding the beans that weren't fresh, she paused to scan the other workstations. In an adjacent corner a newbie created salads. Nearby, a grill cook prepared chicken dishes. He held his tongs and grill brushes high, flicking dashes of red pepper and sea salt onto the sizzling chicken.
Her gaze traveled to Antonio, the sous chef, who stood across from her. His bald head was covered by a pleated white toque hat—starched, round, and ten inches high—and a white coat. Antonio subscribed to a kitchen hierarchy and believed the head chef should wear the tallest hat, and he took his job very seriously. As she observed him, he flash-fried shrimp in garlic butter, tossing the mixture with a flamboyance rivaling any celebrity chef.
With a tolerant smile, she began snapping the stems off the beans.
Certainly homemade pasta, homemade anything, really, was twice the effort, and her employees often struggled to keep up with orders on fast-paced nights. But it was worth it.
With a sigh, she blew a wisp of hair off her forehead.
Or was it?
Earlier in the evening, a part-time employee had quit with no notice, and Julie had asked—okay, begged—a member of her prep team to put in a double shift. Not long afterward, a server spilled olive oil on a woman's silk dress, a cook burned his fingers on a steamer, and a waiter tripped over a loose wire in the foyer, dropping an armload of ceramic dishes that had crashed to the floor and shattered into hundreds of pieces.
A glance at her watch prompted her to wryly shake her head. Quite an eventful evening, considering it was only seven o'clock. Already exhausted with an impending headache, she scraped up an armful of beans, intending to rinse them in cold water to remove any dust and dirt.
The phone buzzed, and Julie frowned. No one in the front of the house called the back unless there was a problem.
She set down the beans, snapped off her sanitary gloves, and answered the phone. "Yes?"
"A guy on line three insists on speaking with you," the hostess said.
"We're in the middle of the dinner hour and swamped with orders."
"It's Lorenzo Rossi."
"The meteorologist from the six o'clock news? Why? Is he forecasting another thunderstorm?" Julie asked. "Two weeks ago he panicked the entire community when he raised an alarm about a dangerous storm with potential flood warning, and his forecast was incorrect. We closed early, and the storm bypassed our area."
"Give him credit. He gets the weather right some of the time." The hostess giggled, which was odd. Usually, she was proper and polite, but Julie attributed the giggling to the fact that Lorenzo Rossi was drop-dead gorgeous.
"Shall I tell him to phone back after we close at ten?" the hostess suggested.
Rapidly, Julie considered her options.
Perhaps he was calling to promote her restaurant on TV? After The Pasta Junction's recent less-than-stellar review by the new food critic in Bloomingfield, the positive endorsement from Lorenzo might be a bonus.
"Put him through," Julie said.
"Anything you say, boss."
Julie grinned and accepted the call.
"Julie Elliot?" Lorenzo's voice was deep and familiar, sounding exactly like the man she watched at the end of the day on the television station's website. Instantly, her mind conjured up his handsome face, the black wavy hair and his vivid blue eyes. Similar to his fellow newsmen who wore sport coats and dress pants, Lorenzo clicked it up a notch and wore classic, three-piece suits. And his tone—strong and masculine, with a slight Italian accent.
Julie cupped the phone to her ear. "Yes, this is she."
"My name is Lorenzo Rossi."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Rossi?"
"I'm calling about New Year's Day. Your restaurant is one of the few places in town that are open."
"Christmas and New Years are special occasions. I'm happy to give families and friends the opportunity to dine out together." Plus, the decision to remain open on those holidays had proved profitable. "We'd love to have you join us here at The Pasta Junction. I'll switch you back to the hostess to make a reservation."
"I'd like to book a first-wedding-anniversary dinner."
"The front desk will confirm the number of people in your party."
"Also, I want to serve a special dessert, my grandma Gloria's Italian Cassata."
"My pastry chef can accommodate you." Although the chef had recently quit too, and the restaurant had begun outsourcing their desserts. She didn't have the heart to tell Mr. Rossi that bit of news. She didn't have the heart to tell herself it would cost $2000 to train a new chef.
"Do you know what a cassata is?"
Julie bristled. "A cassata is an Italian cheesecake."
"You're recognized for making genuine homemade pasta."
"Correct."
"Because of your commitment to authenticity, I expect you'll be able to replicate my grandmother's cassata recipe."
"Can you supply us with the recipe, Mr. Rossi?"
"Gladly." Silence prevailed for a beat. "I remember her cheesecake overflowed with chocolate. May I set up an appointment to discuss it?"
He requested an appointment to discuss a cheesecake?
She stared at the phone. "Certainly."
"Excellent," he said. "People rave about your professionalism."
"That's our motto. Professionalism."
Now why had she professed such a thing? Professionalism wasn't the motto, although it was a goal she tried hard to achieve.
However, he could easily reserve online, and email her the recipe. She told him as much, giving him the restaurant's website.
"I've checked it, but I'd still like to meet with you."
Julie's gaze wandered to Antonio as he chopped garlic for another shrimp dinner. An overabundance of garlic would overpower the meal, she thought. Frazzled, she cradled the phone and took a step forward to stop him.
"Miss Elliot?"
Julie nodded into the phone, a silly gesture because Mr. Rossi couldn't see it. "Yes?"
"Will tomorrow morning be agreeable? I need to be at the television studio by noon."
"Mornings are best for me too." And he apparently wasn't giving her any choice. Still, she prided herself on excellent customer service and quickly agreed. He expected professionalism, and she would comply.
"Nine o'clock?" he asked.
"Sure. I'll show you several catering menus, and you can choose which meal will suit your party best."
"Thank you, Miss Elliot." He hesitated. "I assume it's Miss—"
"It is." She'd never married, never really dated, except the one occasion when she'd fallen hard for a guy who'd made it a habit to dine alone at her restaurant. He'd flirted with her, and at first she'd enjoyed the attention. Then she'd found out he was married and studiously ignored him until he'd gotten the hint and not come around anymore.
Want more?
Check out the boxed set on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09JL2SZHM/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_TD81ZK5DQ1R0GTW1Y7HF