Culinaria L'amore

Culinaria L'amore Chapter Five*

My father used to say one Italian proverb over and over again, whenever I had expressed my longing for a famous life in New York City or a mansion with wild stallions and servants. Merely childish dreams at the time, but my padre wanted to emphasize enjoying what a person already has.

"E meglio un uovo oggi di una gallina domani." It is better to have one bird in hand than two in the bush.

Those were the words I dwelled on as the sleek black limousine approached the curb next to our Victorian house, looking out of place among the small houses lined across from me. It came to a smooth stop as the driver hurried out from behind the wheel.

"Ms. Bellini, I presume?" He asked, lifting his sunglasses over his shaved head to squint at me in the sunlight. Before I could answer, a slightly annoyed voice from inside the limo yelled, "That's her James. Hurry up! I've got a press conference with Cooking International and I don't want to be late."

Well, well, well. If it wasn't Mr. Garrett 'stick up my ass' Bianchi.

"Ragazze e la loro roba. So annoying." He muttered from inside the vehicle, his tone one of impatience and irritation.

I frowned at his comment and watched as James carefully placed my two suitcases in the trunk before answering him.

"Due valigie sono un sacco?" I questioned, slowly entering the dark interior of the limousine.

Despite the bright sunlight outside, inside was as gloomy as a place could possibly be. Closing my door softly, I coughed as a cloud of smoke hit my lungs.

"What are you doing? Smoking is the cancer of fools."

The slouching form of Garrett only snorted and took another long drag then blew it my way again. He was dressed in a casual cashmere grey sweater, one that only helped enunciate the hard muscles visible under the material. Dark blue designer jeans were very snug against his slim hips and polished black dress shoes were propped against his knee in a casual way.

"So you speak Italian, eh?" He muttered looking out of the tinted windows, one hand resting on his armrest and the other holding his burning cigarette.

"No, non parlo Italiano." I muttered sarcastically. "I just made up a bunch of words and hoped it sounded like Italian."

He looked at me, grey eyes boring into mine. "Sarcasm is not appreciated."

"Smoking is not appreciated."

"Ooh, that hurt."

Why was he being such a jackass again? Last week, he had seemed so genuinely nice when he apologized. Somebody seriously needed to diagnose him with bipolar disorder.

"So why did you come with James to pick me up? I assure you, I did not need extra company."

"When you are the son of one of the most famous people in the world, they tend to put thir amazing power into their commands and poof! You are doing something you don't want to."

After that comment, we fell into an uncomfortable silence, me staring out the window, and him sucking away on his stick of death.

Once in a while Garrett and I would say a couple things to each other, though more of the ride consisted of me staring out the window and him just sitting there with Adele singing softly in the background.

An hour later, as we slowly pulled up to the Bianchi Mansion, my mind was fully exhausted. I had dwelled on the thoughts of home, of my father, and his beloved restaurant. My mind had been in a mental battle. Was it right that I had left or should I have stayed? Either way, it was too late to change.