My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

And service is complete. Sweaty, exhausted, but feeling good about the food I’ve made tonight, I start the cleaning process. We may not handle the dishes, but I take special care of my knives and my station like a chef should.

“Roberta! Lorenzo! Come, come!” Sergio’s voice is excited and loud, leading us both to pop our heads out to see what he wants.

“The special guests, they would like to speak with the chefs. Come, come!” He waves a hand for us to follow, and to my chagrin, I do, letting him show me off like a trained dog.

In the dining room which has been closed for the private party, I see the tables have been rearranged into a large square. Along one edge sits the bridal party. I recognize the bride and groom from Milo’s picture, though they look different now.

Kennedy is wearing a gray suit with a bright pink tie—I was right about the color, at least—and talking to an older man at his side. Next to him, Milo’s obsession, the bride is taking picture after picture of her untouched tiramisu from various angles.

Sergio walks straight up to them, interrupting Kennedy’s conversation. “Here they are! I present Avanti Ristorante’s chefs, Lorenzo Toscani and Roberta Esposita. Chefs, these are our special guests, Cole Kennedy and Claire Johnson.”

Wait . . . did he say Cole Kennedy? Hell, I even got the guy’s name wrong, thinking Kennedy was his first name. Not that it matters since they’re both last names. That’s a rich guy thing, right? I’m surprised there’s not a junior or even some numbers after his name, like Cole Kennedy the third.

Anyway, I did the special dinner party, fed the guests, and now I’ll never see him again. Still, the name tickles something in my mind. I eye the man again, trying to place him, but I come up empty.

As I’ve been eyeing the guy, I feel the prick of another gaze on me and realize that I’ve become the object of attention. Especially a lot of female attention—the bridesmaids ogling me, a few female guests getting up to come closer, and even the bride has lifted her eyes from her phone. In fact, I’m pretty sure she just took a picture of me.

I stiffen my back, ready to play the charming chef role that’s required of me. I even purposefully thicken my Italian accent, knowing it makes the food somehow seem more authentic the less decipherable I become.

“Buona sera,” I say, placing a hand on my chest and bowing my head slightly, though I keep my eyes lifted, a small flirtatious gleam in them as I meet the bride’s. I don’t mean anything by it, but making the guest feel special is always a slick move. “You enjoy the fettuccine? It is my family’s recipe, perfected through the generations as it’s passed down to the next. Now, it is my turn to create it for you.”

She swoons, a blush rising on her cheeks, and my work here is done.

“Yes, it was ah-maz-ing,” she says, each syllable its own word. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything that delicious in my mouth.”

I choke on the thirteen-year-old boy laughter that automatically tries to burst free at her phrasing, especially when she seems guilelessly unaware of her unintended double entendre.

“The pleasure was all mine,” I answer, keeping my tone level so as not to give my laughter away.

Cole takes Claire’s hand, patting it affectionately like one would a dog. It might not be a possessive, claiming, Neanderthal-type movement, but he’s warning me off all the same. “Claire Bear, didn’t you have something you wanted to ask?” he prompts.

She smiles sweetly at Cole and nods thankfully at the reminder. “Yes! Everything was so delicious tonight, and Mr. Sergio was telling us about how you’ve traveled all over the world learning how to cook—Italy, France, Spain, Germany, and finally, all over the States.”

I smile congenially while she tells me my own life story.

“And that fettuccine was . . . wow,” she says breathlessly. I swear she looks around the table for her plate too. Cole taps her hand, and her eyes flick back to me. “Will you come with us and make it for the wedding? Maybe even do one of the dinners? Whatever you want, as long as you make more of that alfredo.” To Cole, she gushes, “God, I would drink it like wine! Like cheese and wine all in one. I would be cheese drunk and carb loaded all the time.”

She beams, like any of that made sense. I look to Cole, thinking he can help translate what she’s saying. It’s not that my English is lacking, but Claire is talking fast and making little sense. But Cole is quiet, simply smiling lovingly with eyes only for Claire. Next, as much as I hate to admit it, I look to Sergio. He is good with the guests, after all, and perhaps can step in to help me figure out what the hell is going on here. But he too is silent, his cheeks flushed.