Chapter 3: The Taste Of Something New

The next day, Amara stood in front of Terra e Fiamma again, this time in a simple but fitted blouse and clean jeans—not her usual catering blacks, and not her “mom at the supermarket” look either. She wasn’t sure who she was dressing for: herself… or Luca.

Inside, the restaurant was a hive of activity. The long table was covered with samples—small, pristine dishes that looked too beautiful to eat. Truffle-dusted risotto, handmade pasta coiled like golden thread, and fresh burrata oozing beside heirloom tomatoes. The aroma was divine.

Luca spotted her from across the room and waved her over with a half-smile that made her heart skip. He was in chef whites this time, sleeves rolled again, arms dusted in flour and herbs. Effortlessly magnetic.

“You came,” he said, stepping toward her. “And with your own fork, I assume?”

Amara pulled a silver fork from her bag with a dramatic flourish. “Never leave home without it.”

He laughed. “Good. Let’s put it to work.”

He guided her to a small table set slightly apart from the others. Several of his staff—mostly young, stylish, and clearly professionals—watched her with curiosity as she took her seat.

“This isn’t a formal tasting,” Luca said, sliding a small plate of lemon-infused scallops toward her. “I just want to know what hits, what misses, and if anything makes your soul sing.”

Amara raised an eyebrow. “My soul? That’s high praise for shellfish.”

“Trust me,” he said, folding his arms, “food can change lives.”

She took a bite. The scallop melted on her tongue, tender and citrus-bright. “Okay… this one could maybe fix my credit score.”

Luca chuckled. “That good?”

She nodded, savoring. “It’s like summer and confidence and a hug from someone who smells expensive.”

His expression lit up, delighted. “That is the best food review I’ve ever heard.”

They continued through six courses, Amara giving honest reactions—sometimes praise, sometimes critique. She didn’t pretend to be a food critic, but Luca didn’t want that. He wanted real. And she gave it.

“Okay,” she said, pointing to a wild mushroom ravioli. “This one is… confusing.”

“How so?”

“It tastes amazing, but the texture is weird. Like the mushrooms are too chewy. It’s like kissing a man who looks great in photos but talks about himself in third person.”

Luca burst out laughing, startling a few of the sous chefs.

“I swear,” he said, still chuckling, “if I ever get a second Michelin star for this place, it’ll be because of that analogy.”

They moved to dessert, where a silky tiramisu stole her breath. Amara leaned back, closing her eyes as she savored it.

“You okay?” Luca asked.

“I need a minute,” she said. “I think I’m in love.”

“With the dessert?”

“…Yes. Definitely the dessert.”

But when she opened her eyes, Luca was already watching her—not with amusement, but with something quieter. Warmer.

“Can I ask you something personal?” he said after a moment.

“You mean besides what kind of chocolate I hide from my kid so I don’t have to share?”

He smiled. “Noah, right?”

She blinked. “How do you know his name?”

“I asked Rosie. She says he’s got your energy and better table manners.”

Amara grinned. “He’s a character.”

“You’re doing it alone?”

She nodded, instinctively bracing. Most men tensed up or tiptoed away once she mentioned single motherhood.

But Luca didn’t flinch. “That’s impressive.”

She tilted her head. “That’s it? No unsolicited advice or pity?”

“I was raised by a single mom,” he said. “She ran a bakery in Naples. Taught me everything—about food, discipline, loyalty. I owe her everything.”

The air shifted again. Amara felt the walls around her soften. He wasn’t just a billionaire chef. He was someone who got it. Who knew the sleepless nights, the worry, the quiet strength it took to show up every day and hold everything together.

Before she could respond, one of the kitchen staff rushed over.

“Chef, the vendors just delivered frozen sea bass instead of fresh.”

Luca sighed. “Excuse me.”

He walked off, already barking orders in fluent Italian, the commanding force of him reemerging like a tidal wave.

Amara watched him for a beat, her heart tugging in two directions. She wasn’t supposed to be here, not like this—laughing with him, tasting food, feeling seen. Her life was about structure and survival.

But around Luca?

It felt like something was blooming—slowly, carefully, but insistently.

Something warm.

Something dangerous.

Something real.