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My competitive nature couldn’t resist being condescending. “It’s cute you think you have more skills than someone who is twice your age and far more experienced.”

“Well, if you’re inviting me to find out for myself, I’m definitely interested.”

I chuckled at his absurd offer. “You should be so lucky.”

“Can you identify what you ate?”

“It was a creamy cheesecake that was subtly sweet from honey, with a whisper of heat from sriracha. Hardly a challenge.”

“Ah, but was it delicious?”

Without being able to see him, I could hear the slight hope in his voice that sought my approval. Mindful of the cameras recording every interaction, I figured it couldn’t hurt to be nice for now. “It was quite good for a cheesecake, although unorthodox.”

“Here’s a sparkling water with lemon to cleanse your palate,” he offered, guiding my hand to accept the cold glass. His touch felt almost electric when I couldn’t see, but I accepted the drink gratefully. It was indeed a refreshing reset for my taste buds.

“Grazie,” I said before handing the glass back to him.

“As you know, I ask questions in between bites. This cheesecake is sweet, creamy, and just a little fiery, like you on a good day. Speaking of balance, what’s the one dish that defines your career, the one that says who you are as a chef?”

I took a moment to consider my answer. “Perhaps mytagliatelle al ragù. It’s the ultimate comfort food, with rich flavors that’ll leave you feeling like you’re in the arms of someone who knows how to treat you right.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to make that for me after we’re done?”

I chuckled at his unbridled enthusiasm. “That depends on whether you destroy all my taste buds before we’re finished.”

“Speaking of which, are you ready for the next dessert? This is a 50,000 SHU.”

“Your sadistic glee is disconcerting, my dear,” I complained, making him laugh. “But I suppose so, even though those numbers sound made-up.”

“This one tastes like a bonfire that just learned how to bake,” he said, once again pressing the spoon to my lips to accept his offering. In doing so, I caught a whiff of his tantalizing cologne.

Rich, fudgy chocolate with a kick of spice exploded on my tongue. It was wonderfully moist and flavorful. “The cinnamon and cayenne in the brownie are a bit cheeky, but I like it.” I finished chewing the bite, enjoying the slight hint of heat on my tongue. “It’s nice that the spice doesn’t take over, so you can still appreciate the brownie.”

“Right again,” he said, his voice full of pride rather than the annoyance I expected over guessing the correct answer so easily. He offered me the sparkling lemon water to refresh myself. “This one has a subtle burn, but it lingers—kind of like when people criticize you on social media. What’s the harshest criticism you’ve ever received about your cooking, and how did you handle it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t pay the critics any mind. They’re in the business of saying outrageous things in reviews for people to read who would never darken the doors of one of my restaurants. My philosophy is if you’re going to spill the tea, make sure it’s as tasty as my risotto.”

“There must be a few reviews that have gotten under your skin over the years. Especially assholes like B.B. Hull, who said, ‘Chef Niccolò seasons his dishes like someone who thinks shoutingMamma mia!is a personality trait.’ Surely, that pisses you off?”

I snorted at the absurd quote. “Do the armchair critics in your comments section affect you?”

“Not usually, but sometimes they make me do things out of spite,” Adler admitted, making us both laugh.

“Fair enough. But for me, there’s no point in reacting to someone like Hull, who enjoys personal attacks like, ‘If this is what food made with love tastes like, it’s no wonder Niccolò de Rosa is still single.’ It’s merely clickbait on his little articles. I don’t have to humor him, especially when chefs like me are the reason he’s famous. He’d be no one without our talents and audience.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s also the same reviewer who said, ‘The food was bad, the ambiance was worse, and as for Chef Niccolò? He has the vibe of a man who’d textu up?at two in the morning after ghosting you for six months,’ right?”

I snorted. “Yes, because he’s still mad I refused to indulge him with a hate fuck when he propositioned me after having a few too many glasses of wine at the opening of Lucciola.”

Adler gasped in shock, as did whoever was behind the camera. “Seriously?”

“He’ll deny it, even though I have the texts to prove it.”

“Wow, you heard it here first, folks,” Adler said in an amazed tone. “On that bombshell, let’s move on to the next dessert. It should be a little more challenging, with an SHU of 100,000.”

“I should hope so. I’m almost offended that you haven’t made me sweat yet.”

“Oh, we’ll get to that, don’t worry.” The sound of his laughter was light and melodic, with a natural vibrancy that seemed to ripple through the air like a song carried on a summer breeze. It wasn’t loud or forced for the cameras but warm, easy, and unguarded. There was something about it that tugged at my chest, softening edges I hadn’t realized were sharp. It felt intimate in a way I couldn’t quite explain.