Chapter 13
13
PIA
Since I didn’t technically have days on or off, even though I’d worked every day this week, I walked from my small apartment toward the inn anyway. It had nothing to do with seeing Mason and everything to do with the fact that guests would be coming back tomorrow.
As I approached, I was still far enough away that when I heard banging, I decided now was a good time to panic. Parker was making mostly cosmetic changes to the foyer and reception, so what was with this noise?
Unfortunately, I didn’t have to open the front door of the inn side of the building to see the cause.
“No,” I said, walking up the stairs. “No, no, no.”
I knew the renovation log by heart at this point. We hadn’t discussed new flooring, since the downstairs flooring was actually one of the newest additions. The bedrooms were another story altogether, but… what the hell?
“Parker,” I called over the noise. “What is going on?”
He looked up, protective eyewear intact, and turned off the very loud saw. “What’s that?”
“What is going on? What is that?”
He looked from me to the tile and back again.
“A grout saw?”
A grout saw. Fabulous. “Why are you using that on the flooring?”
He looked at me like I’d lost a marble. “Because this is how you replace tiles.”
Deep breaths. It looked like he’d just gotten started. There was no way this was a one-day job, and even if we rerouted guests into the parlor, they’d have to walk past this. Never mind the noise.
“Why,” I asked, trying to stay patient, “are you replacing the tile?”
“Because I can’t install the hardwood flooring without taking this out.”
I peered inside. No sign of him. Deep breaths. “Where is Mason?”
“Hardware store.”
Remembering this was a problem for Mason, and not the guy doing pro bono work on the inn, I remained calm. “And where is the hardware store?”
“Block off the square behind the Sugar Shack.”
Right, the candy store on the same block as my apartment. “Thanks.”
I got back up the hill and was two blocks away from the town square when I saw him. Mason was just heading into Casa Di Vino, across the street from O’Malley’s.
By the time I got there, he was already at the register. With a bag in the crook of his arm, Mason was just checking out.
“Pia?” he asked as I approached.
“We need to talk,” I said, glancing at the older gentleman checking him out. His friendly smile and bright eyes made it hard to look away.
“Hi,” I said.
“ Buongiorno, signorina .”
I knew it. He was Italian.
“ Buongiorno, signore? ”
“Emilio,” he said, completely ignoring Mason.
“Pia,” I said. “ Al tuo servizio .”
“ No, sono da te, Signorina Pia .”
Mason cleared his throat.
“He’s Italian,” I said, by way of an explanation.
“I’m aware.” Mason’s dry tone was very much in line with his current mood, which seemed to be on the surly side. His eyes suddenly widened. “I just realized, you guys have the same last name.”
Emilio and I locked gazes. “Russo?” I asked.
“No,” Mason answered, even though I wasn’t looking at him. “Your other last name.”
I gave him a look.
“You are a Russo,” Emilio asked. “From where?”
As he talked, I could detect a slight accent. Unless I was mistaken, he was first generation but had been in the States for many years.
“My great-great-grandparents on my father’s side were from Matera. You?”
“I was born in Bari. My wife and I came here nearly twenty-five years ago.”
“Isn’t Bari the one with the white houses?”
“It is,” he replied. “Have you been there?”
“I wish. I’ve never even been to Italy before.”
“ Un peccato ,” he said. Though I didn’t know the phrase, he was clearly disappointed. “You must go someday. Belissima .” He kissed his fingers.
Emilio’s boisterous and gregarious greeting made me feel instantly at home. “I would love to, especially Matera. I’ve heard Sicily is beautiful.”
“Not nearly as beautiful as you.”
“ Grazie .” I accepted the compliment.
“Who is this beauty, Pia Russo?” Emilio asked Mason.
“Heritage Hill’s new manager. She’s from Oregon, moved to Cedar Falls last week.”
“Very good,” he said. “Do you drink wine?”
“Do I drink wine? Is that even a question?”
Emilio laughed. “You’ll come back and sample a new vintage Barolo wine a childhood friend of mine produces in the Piedmont region. Northern Italy,” he said, as if the two words were ash in his mouth. “But he is a good guy. The wine is made in a small batch from an obscure grape clone with exceptional terroir. I’ll have it by the weekend. You’ll come to try?”
“Of course,” I said. “So this place is yours?”
Though I spoke with Emilio, every nerve ending in my body hummed with awareness of Mason. I couldn’t smell his signature cologne today. Instead he smelled like soap. The visual on that one almost had me shaking my head to clear it.
“ Sì, signorina . My wife’s family owns a small vineyard back home. We spent many years there, winemaking, and now have it shipped here.”
“That’s incredible. So some of this wine is yours?”
“Indeed. And others, by some friends back home. I even have local wines,” he whispered, leaning forward as if telling me a secret. “For the folks who like the ‘s’ stuff.”
I made a face. “Sweet wine. No thank you.”
“I don’t use the word here since every other lake in the region produces the stuff. But you’ll find Keuka has more dry than most. Have you done a tour of the region’s wineries yet?”
“Nope.” I shook my head.
Emilio put his hands on his hips. “Mason. Your manager is a dry wine drinker and you haven’t taken her to Ravines? Or Keuka Springs?”
“I have not.”
Emilio didn’t seem to take exception to Mason’s dry tone. “Fix that, son.”
He handed Mason back his credit card just as a person got in line behind us.
“Yes, sir,” he said, his deference and politeness to the older man oddly appealing.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Pia Russo.”
“And same to you, Emilio Russo.”
“She’s a keeper, Mason.”
“See ya, Emilio.”
As we walked out, I couldn’t help but point out, “You didn’t agree with him.”
“That you’re a keeper?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s too soon to tell.” He held the door open as I walked through it.
“Funny,” I said, remembering why I’d come to find him in the first place. As soon as we hit the street, I stopped walking. “Not funny, the fact that we have guests coming tomorrow and Parker is ripping up the foyer floor.”
Mason stopped with me. “You were at the inn already?”
“I was.” Why was he looking at me funny?
“On a Sunday?”
“I just wanted to make sure everything was set for tomorrow. Which, I might add, it is not. We can’t have that torn up, never mind the noise, with guests coming.”
Realizing both of Mason’s arms were full between his hardware store and wine purchases, I reached for the wine bag.
“I got it.”
“I’m not carrying anything,” I argued.
“I got it,” Mason repeated, as if he hadn’t heard me.
“You are so frustrating.”
We began walking toward the inn.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Soooo?”
“We decided to do it last night. Parker thinks he can hammer the whole thing out today with mine and Beck’s help.”
“The whole thing, as in ripping up the tile and replacing it with hardwood floors? In a day?”
“That’s what he said.”
“But that wasn’t even on the list of renovations.”
“I know. But I finally finished going through my dad’s things and found some notes. Including…” His sidelong gaze wasn’t lost on me. “Ones about you.”
Oh boy.
“He had a list of renovations too, including the foyer and reception area’s flooring, with a star next to it. Apparently having a more updated and appealing entrance was top on his list.”
Now I felt like a shit for making such a big deal. “So you wanted to honor his wishes?”
He shrugged off my tone, acting like it wasn’t a thing. But I’d begun to know Mason a bit, and it was. His tone had gotten gruffer, if such a thing were possible, when he talked about his dad.
“I mentioned it to Parker, and he was like, ‘Let’s do it.’ Since we didn’t have guests today, and it’s Parker’s day off, he thought it would be a good time to get it done. I was going to mention it to you last night before we left but didn’t want to mix business and pleasure.”
I nearly tripped on the sidewalk at that one. Moving on…
“I don’t mind,” I said.
“No?”
He said it with just enough innuendo in his tone that it was difficult to ignore. But I did, of course. Though my imagination would probably not stop racing when I was home tonight in bed.
Like last night, touching myself, thinking of him.
Focus, Pia .
“No. This isn’t a typical job, and I know that.” We stepped onto the inn’s property. “I’m invested in making Heritage Hill a success, whatever it takes. That’s why I’m here today. On a Sunday.”
We could still hear Parker’s grout saw from the walkway since the inn’s front door was open. As we made our way into the kitchen, Mason put his bags on the island, just as Beck stumbled in looking like death warmed over.
We both stopped to stare. He wore only a pair of boxers, and there was a lot to look at. Beck clearly worked out regularly. But mostly I wondered what Mason would look like in a pair of boxers too.
Pouring himself a coffee, Beck leaned against the kitchen counter. “When does Esther start back? I could really use some scrambled eggs with cheese.”
I stifled a laugh.
“Tomorrow,” Mason said dryly. “You could actually make them yourself, you know?”
Beck didn’t answer.
“Rough night?” I asked.
“Late night.” His smile told me I didn’t want to know any more. Bottom on my list of morning topics were Beck’s hookup stories, and I could guarantee that was what he meant.
“Are you still up for the floor project? We got most of the materials last night and Parker’s already ripping up the tile.”
“I hear that.” Beck walked to the fridge, opened it, looked inside and closed it.
He was a real piece of work. “Get upstairs,” I ordered him. “Get some clothes on, and I’ll make you eggs with freaking cheese.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously. Now go. I need this project wrapped up today. We’re not getting bad reviews the first day on my watch.” I shooed him out of the kitchen. “Go.”
Surprisingly, he listened, but not before refilling his coffee mug.
“You don’t need to do that,” Mason said. “It’s not part of the job description.”
“Making eggs and cheese for your hungover friend? Are you sure? I swear I saw that somewhere in the original posting.”
“Funny,” he shot back in the same exact tone I’d used back at the wine store. “So how do you know so much Italian if you’ve never been there?”
“My grandparents and some of my aunts and uncles speak it. They and their friends are in the restaurant enough that I’ve picked up a few things over the years.”
“More than a few things, I’d say.” Mason crossed his arms and leaned back against the same counter Beck was at a few minutes ago. Two good-looking men. Similar stances. Only one I wanted to touch.
So badly.
“Mostly food and wine stuff. I can order red wine with the best of them.”
Mason didn’t say anything for a second. “I like it.”
His tone was at odds with his words, like he was angry or something.
“When I talk in Italian?”
“Yeah.”
I’d like you to toss me over your shoulder and carry me upstairs .
“Thanks,” I said instead.
“Ahem.” Parker cleared his throat at the door.
I quickly looked away from Mason and headed toward the fridge to grab the eggs.
“Anytime you want to join me. Did you get the leveling compound?”
“I did. Coming in now.”
I closed the fridge.
Parker was gone already.
“See me before you go,” Mason said.
“I’m gonna do some work after the eggs. Want some?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Mason just nodded and left the kitchen, but for my part, I couldn’t breathe. That entire exchange was next level. Not the words, exactly, but the way he’d looked at me. It was as if Mason was fighting the same battle as I was, and this morning, we both emerged losers.
Mason wanted me to see him before I left. What did he want that we couldn’t have talked about just then? Part of me dreaded the answer and another part of me wanted to leave sooner rather than later just so I could find out.
Be careful what you wish for, Pia .
Sage advice. Now I just had to follow it.