A/N: Ah!! Sorry this chapter had only two scenes ;-; Again I expected to have a little more time this weekend since it's the Easter holidays but I was out for half the day today spending time with my family :') I hope I don't bore you with the slow pace.
________________________
[Leroy]
He was about to say yes.
You could tell from the look in his eyes. A happy sheen, glinting under the light; how a midsummer pool does at every skim of its surface. Ripples. They erased all thoughts from before. Thoughts about the brushing of our fingers and his response.
Right there and then, taking in the way he'd jumped out
of his skin at the contact was enough to put ideas into my head. Wasn't hard to arrive at a conclusion that involved him wanting to avoid me for some space but now, eyes locked, I knew I was wrong. The moment reminded me, strangely, in a way I didn't expect to realize just how long it'd been since we'd... spent time together. Alone. Close. Touching. Not in that way. But also in that way.
Fuck, it's in my head now.
The light in his eyes disappeared as soon as he lowered his gaze. Averting. "I... well that sounds... I'd love to but. There's a producer's meeting and reading in two hours and I have to get Leo settled in the room, so..."
I nodded. There was disappointment in his voice; mild, but not entirely hidden. At least not from me.
"Next time." He went on to add, glancing down at the keycard in his hands. "If that's alright with you."
The keycard distracted—reminded me of a time they slid down the front of shirts, slow and appreciative, between slender fingers of snow staying the night. The urge to run my fingers through his hair and give him the usual on his forehead sparked a brief movement toward him but I killed it in time, holding off just as Raul called from two counters down alongside Pao and Streisand.
"Next time." I agreed. And there he revealed the smile I had been waiting for. His shoulders eased, sighing a little. Relieved.
"Alright. I'll um. See you, then." He reached down to pat my boy on his head before turning to leave, looking over his shoulder with a tiny wave. I watched him go.
Half the line at the front desk had been cleared and people were beginning to filter into the lift lobby with their keycards. I waited at the counter for a bit until the staff from earlier returned with a keycard to my new Chicken-friendly room, then headed over to wait for an elevator.
"Hi again."
I turned. The same guy—the one at the airport. Standing a couple of feet behind in the lobby with his backpack, looking my way. I nodded once, then turned back round.
"So um. What floor are you on?"
I heard him step closer but Chicken put some space between him and I, watching him closely. My boy always had a knack for weeding out the ones to look out for. He never liked Erlynn. For years, I'd pinned it on the perfume she wore.
"Four."
"Oh. I'm three. We'd still get a good view of the gardens though. You think?"
Looking at him now, without the cloud of sleep and adrenaline that lasted throughout the first round back in London, I thought: fuck, I've seen him somewhere. Sure, could've been the thousands of EMS calls I'd ran for years or some odd job involving a photoshoot (food photography) but heck, nothing surfaced.
He wasn't one to stand out. Dressed in a simple white polo and dark jeans. Black pea coat. Dark hair, dark eyes. Running through my brief history of humans didn't really help; there wasn't much in there to begin with. The reason I felt the need to have my guard up against the other chefs in the first place had mostly to do with them knowing about me and snow. That, or they had some other plans with Siegfried I didn't know about. The only person I knew for sure to be on my side was Layla.
"Maybe."
"Good thinking on the spring rolls, by the way," he went on. I still didn't know his name. "Wish I th—"
"If we're talking about a good view, hands down, I've got the best one." Andre's voice rang sharp as fuck in my ears and I didn't bother turning to acknowledge his presence. One of the elevators had arrived and I made my way in. Chicken matched my pace. The rest filtered in.
"Oh! That's nice." White polo shirt guy was nice enough to keep him entertained. "So you've... seen your room?"
Andre snorted like he'd just heard the dumbest question on earth. "I don't need to see it. It's a Superior. An upgrade from the ordinary Classic room. Front desk took a liking to me and assigned a room I deserve."
I glanced at the keycard between my fingers. Superior.
"Really? That must mean they like me too." White shirt was good at this game. "I was assigned a Superior room as well! I hope the view is as nice as you described."
Another chef in the elevator who'd kept to himself the entire time was happy to add his name to the list of apparent front desk 'favorites'. He was the Japanese guy who tried his hand at a savory licorice dish. And the only one who did.
Sometimes, I wish my boy could laugh. Or get the irony building up in the elevator so that we'd enjoy people like Andre embarrassing themselves in front of a crowd. Either way, he was left to fume quietly for the next fifteen seconds before exiting the elevator on the third floor with white shirt guy while the rest of us got out on the fourth.
My room was at the far end of the hallway with double the windows—one side overlooking the front yard and the other, the villa's private pool. The interior was some fancy shit but I wasn't the best person to appreciate every detail. A king-sized bed though, was the kind of thing to be universally respected. My boy took a liking to a couch by one of the windows so I transferred a couple of additional pillows from the master bed (there were like, six in total) to the couch and he was content.
I got out his bowl and a can of his favorite stuff before tossing him a vitamin chew. Then thought of unpacking so I did that for a bit but after ten minutes of clothes and shit, I was feeling restless. Leftover energy from the flight and just having pretty much done nothing the entire day.
I changed into something for a run and Chicken got all excited, padding over to his leash with his tail all over the place. Some spare cash in my pocket and we were out in central Florence for a view.
Like I'd said to him: there was a place I wanted to stop by. Google mapped out the optimal route for me and my boy, factoring in a sick view and our need for a good workout. We passed a couple of gardens. A museum. The river Arno. An estimate of the distance we covered was a little more than one-and-a-half miles, and the time we took to do that was just over ten minutes. Slower than my usual, that's for sure. I'd stopped for a bit here and there, taking in the architecture and some parts of the city I found strangely familiar.
It surprised me. People don't usually remember the things they've done as a kid. I was four or five when the three of us stopped by for a couple of days. Couldn't remember the reason why. Didn't even bother remembering the other stuff I ate or the number of naked statues and cathedrals we visited but if anything, there was one sole memory of Florence I had as a kid.
That day, I'd been pretty much a brat. By that I meant baring my fangs at Annie 'cuz she asked me to pick between ice cream and a new video game and of fucking course any genius would've picked the video game and I was—still am—a genius so I picked that but couldn't believe she made me choose between something I've never had but always wanted and the intelligent choice.
Can't remember what happened after that but the next thing in my head was Siegfried taking me to Vivoli's while Annie shopped for souvenirs for friends back home.
I didn't know what Vivoli was. It sounded like a car. Or some type of pasta.
When he told me it was known as the best gelato place in all of Florence, I nearly called him out for lying. We went in and I remember they had a ton of flavors. The display stretched all the way into the store and it was massive. I wanted something with chocolate and sprinkles, like every other kid did, but Siegfried said no and pointed at something plain and white. He got us a cup each. And then we sat by the window on a hot summer day. Can't remember if we talked or anything. He probably said something about keeping this a secret from Annie but I wouldn't have paid him any attention either way.
The gelato was that good.
All I remembered him saying was the name of the plain white ice cream. And the other thing.
That it was easy to impress with new flavors, but to have made people like a flavor they can find everywhere else... was when you know they were good.
I remember the sun outside was at its highest point in the sky and the heat was enough to fuck up any ice cream cone. I also remember being confused about whatever Siegfried had just said, and not quite bothering to figure out the meaning behind his words. They just turned into a habit.
I never went for anything else. Well, sometimes. If I was curious. Or in the mood for some adventure on my second visit to an ice cream parlor. The first was always reserved—one flavor and that was it. Just that one flavor.
So when I stopped by Vivoli for my fix after nearly twenty years of my first scoop, I wasn't all that surprised to see the man himself stepping out of it.
Siegfried wasn't a kid—he could go anywhere he wanted. Somewhere nostalgic wouldn't have crossed my mind, sure, but he did dub this the best gelateria in all of Florence so I wouldn't exactly attribute his visit to sentiment or memory.
I stopped, holding off the approach and taking a couple of steps back into an alley. My boy followed.
If Siegfried paying a visit to Vivoli didn't surprise me, the next thing did. He held the door open for someone behind him and they stepped out onto the sidewalk. It was Du Bellay.
Then again, wouldn't be surprised if she ended up as the token best chef on the show; her being a key producer's sous chef would've placed her in the top spot already. People say getting into the good books of someone on the production team or one of judges would increase the chances of you heading into the next round when it comes to stuff like this—which is true—but that wasn't the case with a snowstorm.
Du Bellay being Siegfried's sous chef was her advantage. Being someone's personal idiot on the other hand, called for legal proceedings, arrest warrants, and the occasional reward of blushing snow.
I waited for them to turn the bend before stepping out of the alley and heading into the store. I joined the queue. Got the usual. Here, it's spelled Vaniglia.
I asked if they were okay with Chicken sitting with me in the store and they were good with it. We sat at the same window seat with my weekly fix, looking out the window and watching people pass.
Felt, then, a tad bit surreal. Cool word, huh. Picked it up from the real genius. He said it means... something like a dream. Here I was, in another part of the world. Some place far. Foreign. Doing the same thing I'd been doing for years.
Just getting the usual.
The light was angled now. Slightly below the roofs with a glow that would soon settle with the coming of night. I watched it fade—waiting for a taste of the flavor I missed.
==============
"Is this seat taken?"
I was nearly half asleep when he spoke to me. White shirt guy. This morning, too, he turned up in a shirt that looked almost identical to the one he wore yesterday. The problem with waking up at five in the morning was expecting an adrenaline rush equal to that of EMS and MVA calls or a random morning fire (that's a joke, kinda) but ending up in front of cameras telling us to look like its our first time in the villa and having to look excited and shit.
At least that was what I understood from the direction.
They had the bunch of us walking down the driveway and past the fountain in the front yard, all the way up to the stairs leading to the entrance where they'd cut to the judges greeting us inside for the main challenge. Note: the main challenge was to be held three days later. Apparently, nothing in shows like these were really shot chronologically. Sometimes, sure. But if they could find some way to work around our schedules for the sake of convenience, nah.
Anyway, an assistant director really liked the idea of having Chicken in the shot too. So we did one take with him in it, just tailing me obediently and they said it added 'character' to the shot so they ended up suggesting I bring him along to the olive farm we were about to head to. I packed a couple of extra things after the intro shoot and boarded the contestant's bus bound for Portofino.
Other chefs gradually filed in, sitting wherever they liked on the bus and stowing their bags in the overhead storage (we packed light, mostly, since it was meant to be a day trip) and this led to me rapidly losing all the energy from the lack of stimulation and nearly falling asleep.
Then white shirt guy had to speak to me.
It took me a second to register his question because one, he was pointing at the seat next to me and two, my boy was literally fast asleep in that very seat. So... yeah, it was taken. I didn't get why he was asking in the first place.
"It's taken." I laid out. He nodded, backing off and heading farther in to search for an open seat. I looked over my shoulder. There were plenty.
A quick assessment of my fatigue led to me conclude that my only source of actual stimulation was the competitive part of the show itself. Or at least some form of learning, which we were about to do at the olive farm. The last and best form of stimulation was cold and often felt like snow.
Wonder if he brought his little one along too.
The three-hour ride to Portofino, I spent mostly asleep. I'd wake from time to time, checking on my boy and taking in a bit of the view. Half the ride was along the coast of a sea. Didn't know its name but pretty sure the librarian did. I'd scribble some ideas every now and then in the book I borrowed. True enough, my chicken scrawl matched the one from seven years ago. The ideas come and go.
Portofino was a splash of color. I'm not the best at describing stuff, at least not like him, but I did know it looked like something out of a movie. The houses were like paintings. Bright. Color after color, overlooking a harbor lined with yachts and boats. Boutiques. Seafood restaurants. We passed a couple that looked pretty high-end but that was really just the tip of the iceberg. The bus headed farther in, past the houses, restaurants and boutiques and up a hill where the trees gradually grew denser, further away from where the tourists were.
We ended up on the tallest hill overlooking the harbor, a good two-three miles away from it and were told to grab our bags and get off the bus. It dropped us contestants just outside the main gate of the olive farm and there, they had an assistant producer walk us in until the narrow road opened up into a rustic mill. Something that looked like it'd been around for more than a hundred years but would've cost more than a lifetime's worth of savings.
From afar, you could make out a demo table they'd set up out on a terrace that overlooked the olive trees. He was standing in front of it, along with the rest of the judges. Speaking to someone in a hat. Likely the owner.
"We're starting the shoot in five. Numbers four to seventeen, in order. Make your way through the door and line yourselves up from right to left."
"The script said we were supposed to be gathering olives," Andre frowned.
The assistant producer sighed. She sounded kinda pissed. "Yes. You will be. First, judges take turns to draw the teams." Okay this is new.
Everyone looked equally confused. I guessed she meant we were gathering olives for the mill but they were going to make it competitive in some way. Like, put half of us against the other.
"You will first taste different types of olive oil. In teams. After gathering the olives, there will be a taste test. The team that identifies the most types correctly will receive high-grade ingredients for the main challenge—that's the basic info. The judges will tell you the full details. We're starting in two. Places." She checked the time before radio-ing someone through her walkie.
Random teams huh. Wonder if they'd pull some strings to have Andre and I on the same team for... entertainment value.