Chapter 2: Stirred,Not Settled

Amara clutched the catering tray with both hands, trying not to let the tremor in her wrist betray her nerves. Clearview Catering had been selected—miraculously—for the soft-opening tasting event of Luca Moretti’s new restaurant, Terra e Fiamma. And somehow, Amara had been chosen to lead the small team of servers.

“Just smile and serve,” she muttered under her breath as she entered the old train station, now transformed into an elegant blend of industrial and rustic chic. Exposed brick walls, high-vaulted ceilings, and copper fixtures gave the space an almost cathedral-like quality. Sunlight poured through the skylights, illuminating the polished marble floors. Every inch of the room whispered class and culinary ambition.

She wasn’t intimidated.

Okay, she was. But only slightly.

From the far end of the room, Luca Moretti stood near a long wooden counter, speaking with a few sharply dressed people. He wore a black chef’s jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted lightly with flour. He was laughing about something, and even from here, Amara could see how effortlessly the group orbited him like planets to a sun.

He noticed her.

His gaze swept across the room and landed on her like a spotlight. He said something to his team and walked toward her, weaving through tables and cords without breaking stride.

“You again,” he said when he reached her. “Amara, wasn’t it?”

“Wow. You remember my name.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I remember faces. Especially when they carry trays like they’re heading into battle.”

She looked down. Her grip was tight. “Right. Sorry. Just trying not to ruin the most important event of my life.”

He chuckled. “Relax. It’s just food. Nobody’s getting heart surgery.”

She exhaled a short laugh. “Says the man who’s probably yelled at three sous chefs today.”

“Only two,” he said dryly. “You want to join the staff?”

She blinked. “What?”

“I need locals. For the front of house. Catering. Maybe even kitchen support. You’ve got energy.”

“Is that chef-speak for ‘you look like you’ve had three jobs this week’?”

He smiled, surprisingly warm. “It’s chef-speak for ‘you move like someone who gives a damn.’ That’s rare.”

Amara felt her cheeks warm. “Thanks. But I already have two jobs. And a kid.”

“Single mom?”

“Very single,” she said before she could stop herself.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Even better. Single moms are multitasking ninjas. I trust those.”

“You trust me?”

“I’m Italian. I trust pasta and strong women.”

Amara laughed again, this time with genuine ease. “Okay, that’s not a terrible motto.”

Just then, a crash echoed from across the room—one of the junior staff had knocked over a tray of champagne flutes. Everyone flinched. Everyone except Luca, who simply raised two fingers toward his sous chef, signaling cleanup, and turned back to her as though nothing had happened.

Unflappable. That was dangerous. She didn’t need charm in a tailored jacket disrupting her routine.

But before she could retreat to the kitchen, Luca leaned in a fraction closer and said, “There’s something about you, Amara. Come back tomorrow. Taste testing. I need someone honest.”

She hesitated. “Why me?”

“Because you’re not impressed by me. That makes your opinion gold.”

She stared at him for a beat too long, then nodded slowly. “Okay. But if I show up, I’m bringing my own fork.”

His smile widened. “Deal.”

Later That Evening

Amara sank into her couch with a groan, kicking off her shoes and pulling Noah into her lap as he tried to climb her like a jungle gym.

“Guess what?” he asked, eyes wide.

“You learned to fly.”

“No! Miss Clara said I drew the best rocket ship today. It even had a microwave.”

“Of course it did. All good ships need snacks.” She hugged him tight, his weight grounding her in the present. “You hungry?”

“Only if you made those spaghetti things.”

“I didn’t. But I might know someone who’s good at that kind of thing.”

Noah squinted. “Are you in love again?”

“What?” she laughed, startled. “Why would you say that?”

“You look like the moms on TV. The ones who get flowers and act funny.”

“I’m not acting funny.”

“You’re smiling for no reason.”

She couldn’t argue. Luca Moretti was now taking up real estate in her mind—and that was not part of the plan. She had rules. No getting involved with bosses. Or billionaires. Or men with world-famous risotto.

But as Noah leaned against her chest, his fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, she realized something unsettling.

She wanted to see Luca again.

Not just for the job.

But because when he looked a

t her, it didn’t feel like he saw a struggling waitress or a tired mom.

It felt like he saw her.