His big kitchen-scarred hand slipped up to span my breasts, and my whole body juddered at the touch. It was all he needed. He scooped me up so my legs wrapped his waist and it was only a few short steps to his tiny cubbyhole beside the wine cellars. If it had been farther, if he’d put me down to walk—if we’d had to stop and fumble with boots and ties, apron knots and a gown’s laces—but my shift billowed to the floor half a heartbeat after he kicked the door shut with one bare foot, and his breeches followed another heartbeat later, and there was no time to think, no time to think and no desire to think either. Just hunger, a ravenous tearing hunger as though the flesh had been starved instead of the belly, and on the narrow straw-stuffed apprentice’s pallet on the floor we flung our bodies down like feasts and tore at each other, savored each other, ate and drank each other, until there was nothing left but crumbs.

And it’s only when the crumbs are left and you’re scraping the dish that you begin to feel the shame of having acted like such a glutton.

I lay gasping and covered with sweat on the lumpy pallet, the hard shoulder and hip of my apprentice—my apprentice!—still pressed against my side. I heard Bartolomeo’s breath slowing and I closed my eyes and prayed as I had never prayed in my life. Sweet Santa Marta, just let him fall asleep. Marco had always promptly fallen asleep when he rolled away from me. If Bartolomeo did too, surely I could creep off to my own chamber and pretend this had all been some fevered nightmare. Surely. Sweet Santa Marta, please let him sleep.

“More Parmesan,” Bartolomeo said up to the ceiling.

“What?” I replied before I could switch to my other plan, which was to pretend that I was asleep. Or perhaps dead.

“More Parmesan.” He turned his head, looking at me over the thin pillow. “On those fried tubers. And a dash of rosemary. You’re right about that.”

“Oh.” I felt my face flaming.

“I’m going to write that recipe up,” he said cheerfully. “I write up all my recipes. The ones that work, anyway. I had an idea for shaved ice and frozen fruits and cream that was a disaster. I wanted it all creamy and cold and smooth, and it just melted into a great sticky puddle. But the fried tubers, those were good. I’m going to make a book someday—all the best recipes, and the best advice for cooks.” He reached out, smoothing back a curl of hair that was sticking to my neck. “You could help me write that part.”

I moved away from his hand, sitting up.