Simmering Desires
Author
MannyHP
Reads
134K
Chapters
30
Miriam returns to her late grandmother’s hilltop property in an Italian village to inspect a shuttered restaurant—only to learn the relaunch is already underway. Agnese, her grandmother’s formidable friend, has hired a chef with his own key: Manny, the blunt stranger from the market. With eight weeks to recreate Lucia’s legendary Sunday ragu, Miriam’s careful plans collide with Manny’s instinctive cooking—and the town’s secrets, memories, and appetites start pulling them both in.
Chapter 1: The Market
A sad tomato and an angry tomato are not the same thing.
When will you come, Miriam?
My grandma asked every phone call. I’d said soon. Not soon enough.
I wheeled my suitcase over cobblestones and tried to match the town to the version I remembered when I was a kid. The café on the corner had a new awning. The fountain in the square had been retiled.
The fishmonger’s shop still smelled the same though, salt and brine drifting into the street, and for a second I was eight years old with sand in my shoes and my grandmother’s hand on my shoulder, steering me past the eels.
I blinked the tears away, refusing to let them fall. Time enough for that later.
The market was where I remembered it, sprawling across the piazza in a mess of canvas and color. I didn’t need to be here. I needed to get to the property, meet the lawyer’s contact, start the inspection. But I’d spotted a tomato stall from across the square, and my feet made the decision for me. Nonna always started with tomatoes.
I picked up a San Marzano. Turned it over, checked the skin. Firm. Good color.
A hand reached past me and took it right out of my fingers.
I looked up. A man was standing next to me, holding my tomato in one hand and placing a different one in my palm with the other. Like a swap. Like this was normal.
“Excuse me?”
He nodded at the one he’d given me. “This one is better.”
I stared at him. Then I tried very hard not to stare at him, which was worse, because now I was actively trying not to notice the tattooed forearms, the reading glasses, the jaw. The fact that his shoulders filled out his shirt in a way that should require some kind of warning label.
“What’s wrong with mine?” I held up the original.
“Nothing is wrong with it.” He shrugged. “This one is just better.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He looked at me. Then he looked at me again, slower, starting at my eyes and traveling down in a way that I felt on my skin like a fingertip tracing a line. My stomach flipped. By the time his gaze came back up to my face, I’d almost forgotten what we were talking about.
He shook his head once, almost smiling, and walked away.
I stood there holding two tomatoes and no explanation. I wasn’t sure if I’d been helped or insulted. I put his tomato back on the pile and bought mine.
The road up to the property wound through olive groves and wild rosemary that scratched at my suitcase wheels. By the time the building appeared at the top of the hill I was sweating through my blouse and breathing harder than I wanted to admit.
I stopped. Looked up at it.
Stone walls covered in jasmine that had gone feral. A terrace facing the sea with a railing rusted to lace. Shutters cracked and faded. The roofline dipped in the middle and the front steps were chipped and the whole place looked like it had been waiting for someone and had gotten tired.
I’d played on those steps. I’d eaten figs off the tree by the door, the one that was still there, taller now, wilder. I’d fallen asleep on the terrace in the summer heat while my grandmother hummed off-key in the kitchen and the whole world smelled like garlic and warm stone.
I went inside before the feeling could finish arriving.
The kitchen was the biggest room. It always had been. Tiled counters, a cast-iron stove, and copper pots on hooks above the sink. Herbs still hanging from a string near the window, dried to ghosts of themselves.
I called the lawyer’s office, confirmed the inspection timeline, and opened a spreadsheet on my tablet. Column A: structural. Column B: costs. Column C: priority. My breathing steadied as the cells filled. This was how I worked. You take the thing that hurts and you give it a column. You give it a number. Numbers are manageable.
I was photographing the far wall when I heard footsteps.
A woman appeared in the doorway. Short, straight-backed, dressed in black. She looked at me and I felt instantly like I’d been caught doing something wrong.
I knew her. It took a second. My grandma’s best friend, and the one I’d secretly referred to as the mean one in my head.
“Agnese.”
“Miriam.” She didn’t smile. I don’t think I’d ever seen her smile. “You’ve grown.”
She sat at the kitchen table without being invited. The table was small, barely enough for two, and she settled into it like the room belonged to her.
“My grandmother’s will was specific,” I started.
“Your grandmother’s instructions were left with me.” She folded her hands. “The kitchen is to be restored. The restaurant will reopen. A soft opening will decide the property’s future.”
“I know. I’ve read the—”
“I’ve already chosen the chef.”
I put my phone down. “You chose the chef?”
“Your grandmother trusted me to make decisions about this kitchen.”
“Without consulting me. The owner.”
“You own the building, Miriam.” She held my eyes. “You do not own the kitchen.”
I wanted to argue. I had six good reasons and a legal document. But she looked at me the way she’d looked at me when I was eight, and the argument died somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
“Who is this chef?”
“He’ll be here shortly.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Your grandmother trusted me with this.”
The sentence closed like a door. What she didn’t say was louder: Your grandmother trusted me. Were you here to be trusted?
I turned back to my spreadsheet. I’d need credentials. References. A portfolio before I agreed to anything.
The front door opened.
Footsteps across the stone floor, confident, unhurried. I looked up from my phone, and the air in the room rearranged itself.
Dark hair. Reading glasses. Tattooed forearms I’d been pretending I hadn’t memorized an hour ago at the market.
He walked into the kitchen, glanced at the counter where I’d set down my tomato, and shook his head. The same way he’d shaken it at the market. Same look. Not even close.
“Miriam,” Agnese said, “this is Manny.”
He looked at me. Held my gaze long enough for my stomach to do the thing again.
He already had a key.
