Chapter 19
Giovanni
“Your room is set up, and dinner will be ready soon. And can I say again, I am deeply sorry for the hazelnut fiasco,” Mamma apologizes with a little bow, like Tessa is the Queen of Allergies.
“Oh my gosh, don’t even think about it. Seriously, it was nothing,” Tessa says as she walks hand-in-hand with Mamma down the hallway.
I glare at my mother’s back, wondering if she can feel the daggers coming out of my eyes. I’m still mad at her for almost killing my pretend girlfriend.
When we make it to my childhood bedroom, Tessa pushes open the door with her free hand and I scope out my old queen-sized mattress. It’ll be tight—both the mattress and the two of us in the bed, but a king won’t fit in here. I sneak a glance at Tessa, but she divulges nothing in her expression.
If I’m honest with myself, I’m nervous about sleeping next to her.
The ethics alone on this are kind of murky, given the favor-for-a-favor arrangement.
Or “diet blackmail,” as Tessa’s been calling it.
Even so, there’s not enough space for either of us to sleep on the floor in my old bedroom, and the biggest piece of furniture my parents own other than a bed is a loveseat in the living room.
With no other guest bedrooms, we’re stuck “sleeping in sin.”
Mamma and Papa weren’t thrilled at the idea of us sharing a bed before marriage, but due to the space limitations, Mamma said God would forgive us—and she’d pray ten rosaries at mass on Sunday just in case.
Tessa’s eyes dart around the walls, lingering over the photos that decorate them.
When she locates my small closet, her body language changes and she lights up.
There’s no door on it, just a curtain that’s pushed to one side, exposing the clothes.
She walks over and reaches out to touch them, before turning around and asking, “Do you mind?”
Both Mamma and I shake our heads.
Tessa faces the closet again and runs her fingers down the tailored shirts. She gently brushes her thumb against the leather belts. The way she looks at clothes is the way I look at my nonno’s sewing machine: completely and utterly enthralled.
“It’s Gio’s first bespoke wardrobe, courtesy of his nonno. Every piece in there was custom made for him,” Mamma tells her.
“They’re beautiful. The stitching is so intricate. I love the contrast of the light thread to leather on the belts,” Tessa murmurs reverently.
Mamma watches her pull out garments with hearts in her eyes. Tessa oohs and aahs over the craftsmanship as Mamma switches to Italian. “She’s such a nice girl, Gio. Sweet, but holds her ground. Perfect for you.”
I fight a wince. The stress of the hospital visit and the lies I’ve told my family are catching up with me. “Sì,” I manage in response.
Looking happily between Tessa and me, Mamma claps her hands. “I’m going to leave you two. I’m sure you want some alone time. But if I can say, once more, how sorry I—”
“Maria, nothing would make me happier right now than you forgiving yourself for an honest mistake. Because I do,” Tessa says graciously.
Mamma nods and closes the door behind her.
“Thank you,” I say, grateful for Tessa’s attitude toward all of the chaos.
Her eyes widen. “It’s nothing. Your mom is a really good person; I don’t want her to feel bad. Your entire family, actually… They’re all lovely.” She returns one of the garments to the closet, carefully hanging it up.
A mischievous glint flashes in her eye when she turns around to look at me. “I thought your poor attitude was hereditary, but it’s not.”
“Ha ha,” I deadpan, walking around to my side of the bed.
I bend down to open up the lower dresser drawers, gesturing to them. “Mamma cleaned out some drawers for anything you want to take out of your suitcase.”
She clutches her chest and happily sighs. “Oh, thank God. Wrinkly clothes make the back of my ears itch.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Really? That’s your fashion pet peeve?”
Tessa shrugs. “Yep. Some people can pull it off, but I’m not one of them. I just look frumpy.”
She unzips her suitcase and pulls out some clothes. Awkwardly maneuvering around me to get to the dresser drawers, she bends down to put away a pair of jeans.
The room is small, so she bumps into me with her ass. My pulse races at the accidental contact, and it’s difficult not to appreciate the view. With Tessa being so tall, I should’ve told Mamma to empty the top drawers. I wasn’t thinking clearly when she asked.
“Sorry.” Her ass brushes up against my legs again as she stands up.
Tessa returns to her suitcase. “What’s yours?”
“What’s my what?” My voice comes out strained as I try not to dwell on Tessa’s ass.
“Fashion pet peeve.”
“Oh.” Flexing my fingers, I give it some thought. “Maybe not dressing appropriately for events. I’ve accepted a lot of styles in fashion, but jeans and Crocs at the Met Gala is not one of them.”
“Of course. One must draw the line at Crocs,” she nods, pulling a pair of Crocs out of her suitcase.
I bark out a laugh. “You’re going to get arrested if you wear those out.”
She sets down the shoes on top of a shoe bag and folds her arms across her chest. “By whom? The fashion police?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but it’ll definitely end in some sort of ticket.”
Lifting her chin, she says, “I’m not worried. My Pretend Boyfriend will protect me.”
“Your Pretend Boyfriend will act like he doesn’t know you.” I sit on the edge of the bed, facing the dresser.
Tessa rolls her eyes and picks up her luggage, then stands to place it on the bed next to me.
My eyes follow her as she reaches in the suitcase, and I notice two books stowed away.
I peer over to see what she might be reading.
One looks almost cartoon-like. It’s difficult to tell what that might be, but the other…
“Why did you bring The Complete Guide to Sewing?” I nod at the book, which has an extra bar code and clear tape secured to the spine. “Did you check this out from the library?”
She closes her suitcase. “Please don’t spy on my things.”
“Sorry.” I hold up my hands. “But why didn’t you ask to borrow it? I would’ve given it to you.”
Her expression is guarded and defensive, and I’m not sure why. Sometimes I feel like there’s this invisible filter between us, taking my words and transforming their meaning to Tessa, and I have no idea how to remove it.
“Just so you can tease me or something?” she asks quietly.
I tilt my head. “Tease you for what, exactly?”
She turns her back toward me and starts fussing with her ponytail. “Forget I mentioned anything.”
“Just tell me. You brought it to my parents’ house. What if they see you reading and ask me about it?”
She says nothing, so I wait patiently.
“Ismuggfullwithsewing,” she mutters.
Catching maybe two words, I give her a come on look.
Tessa pauses and takes a deep breath. “I struggle with sewing.”
I’m floored. “But you went to fashion school.”
She yanks her suitcase open again, pulling a pair of linen pants out. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”
I place my hand on her lower arm. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised.”
Tessa stares at my hand with an unreadable expression. I can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable, so I remove it and place it in my lap.
“I took Foundational Sewing, but they mainly focused on chip machines. And the instructor was a Lamont-level critiquer. I want to learn…” She trails off, before stiffening her back. “I will learn how to sew more skillfully. Good designers know how,” she announces with determination.
I open my mouth to tell her I’d be happy to teach her, but she speaks before I can.
“Anyway, I don’t really want to talk about it. Let’s move on.”
Tessa faces me this time as she sidesteps toward the dresser.
In an attempt to step over my knees, she gets stuck and falls directly into my lap, straddling me, face to face.
Her hands dangle at her sides as she attempts to get up, then stops.
Tries again without putting her hands on me, but all of her efforts are just amounting to her grinding on my cock.
Fuck. Flexing my fingers to give them something to do other than instinctively palming her ass and pressing her against my chest, I wonder why neither of us have moved.
Finally, she plants her hands on my upper thighs for leverage and squirms to get up.
Pressure starts to build, curling low in my stomach. I can’t take this anymore. Before I come in my pants like a teenager, I pluck her up by the waist and plop her on the other side of me.
“There.” I remove my hands.
Her eyes widen. “Whoa. You lifted me like it was nothing.”
I smirk at the flush climbing up her neck. “It was nothing. I could lift two of you.”
She coughs. “I’m going to go to the… bathroom. Well. Bye,” she stumbles, scurrying out of the room, resembling Giuseppe when he sees a ravioli.
Chuckling to myself, I stand up and follow her down the hallway, the bathroom door slamming in my face. I didn’t get a chance to discuss our plans for today, and I don’t want her to wonder where I went when she’s done washing up.
A muffled “Why did you follow me?” comes through the door.
“I just wanted to tell you that I promised Mamma I’d fix one of the dining room chairs. When you come out, that’s where I’ll be if you need me.”
“Thanks,” she replies, “but I don’t think I’ll need you.”
I wince and turn around. As I walk to the kitchen, I allow myself to imagine what it would feel like to be needed by Tessa.