Chapter 17
ENZO
When I come back to Hidden Italy from delivering a catering order with Nico, smelling like tomato sauce, Giovanni hands over an iPhone box with a grin on his face.
“Lucy said she doesn’t want it. But she went ahead and personalized it for you, whatever that means.
” He hesitates, waiting for an explanation I’m in no mood to give, then asks, “What are you doing buying her a phone?”
“I broke hers.”
“On purpose?”
I pause, considering. “Sort of.”
“Was it before or after she drew that mustache on your face.”
“After.”
His eyebrows wing upward, and he shakes his head slightly, the look of a man who knows sharing hour is over. “You’ve got a strange way of romancing women.”
“I never said I was romancing her,” I grumble, annoyed that she didn’t accept the phone but also curious about what’s on it. It’s her next play, I’m sure of it.
I take a look around the room. “Where’s Nonna?”
“She went home,” he says. “But she was mighty interested in your red mustache too.”
“It’s a fashion statement,” I say dryly.
“Yup, clearly,” he scoffs. “I’m about to go home. Max and Dee are here.” He signals toward the rear of the shop, where Max is manning the sandwich counter.
I nod, feeling the itch to look at the phone. But I don’t want to do it in front of my brother. Or Max and Dee.
“I’m going home myself,” I say. “Haven’t been to the apartment for a couple of days.
” I spent the last two nights with Nonna, which was extremely fucking awkward last night, since I’d been so worked up after tasting Lucy.
Still, no way was I going to jerk off at my grandmother’s house. A man has his limits.
“Nico said he wants to meet us at Kippis later to toast my last night before Portia turns me into taffy. Have you seen those ridiculous flyers Eileen made for her?”
I snort. “I think everyone’s seen them, man.”
I might be distracted by Lucy, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind.
The poster has the same shirtless Santa on it as the one in the Santa Speed Dating poster, but Giovanni’s head has been superimposed onto his, and he’s throwing candy into the air, with the tagline: Pull taffy with a shirtless Santa! Free candy tasting and fun.
Portia’s obviously trying to pack in as big of a crowd as possible.
“She loves to needle me. But I’ve got a little surprise for her.”
“Yeah?”
“You gave me the idea with your marker mustache. I found a red Sharpie on the floor wedged beneath one of the shelves.” He glances around, then lifts up his shirt, revealing his chest. Three words are written across his pecs in permanent marker: Santa isn’t real.
I whistle, then laugh. “You really don’t want to take your shirt off, huh? You been missing workouts?”
He rolls his eyes. “If I advertised what I look like without my shirt on, there’d be a stampede.”
“Don’t we want a stampede?” I ask, looking around the sleepy shop. A few people are browsing the shelves, but it’s hardly a crowd.
“Yeah, maybe, but I don’t want them taking a run at me. They can have all the sandwiches they want.”
“Is this about Janine?” I ask. His high school girlfriend moved back to town last year. They recently tried dating again, but they broke up about a month ago.
I overheard him grumbling about her under his breath this morning, but never got the chance to ask him about it.
He glowers at me. “Janine’s engaged. I just found out.”
Shit. That was quick.
“Sorry, man.”
“I’m not. This has nothing to do with her. It’s about me not wanting to be treated like a piece of meat.”
“Okay, fair enough.” I’d be a hypocrite if I pressed for more. There’s plenty I don’t want to tell him either.
“You want to get that drink or what?”
“Nah, but I’ll lift one up for you at the apartment.”
“But you’ll be at the taffy pulling tomorrow?”
“Of course. I already promised Aria I’d record it for her. The lobster trap tree lighting too.”
“How joyful,” he says wryly. “We can send her some of the taffy too. Maybe it can become a family tradition.”
The idea tugs at something in my brain, but it’s hard to think beyond getting home so I can look at the phone.
“You’re dying to see what Lucy put on there, aren’t you?” he asks with a knowing grin.
“Oh, fuck off,” I say, then leave, letting the door shut behind me.
I climb the stairs to the ground level, and before I turn in the direction of home, I notice the flyers between the Sip and Hidden Italy are gone. Both of them. It makes me walk faster, fast enough that I slip on some black ice and nearly wipe out.
When I get home, a note is waiting outside Dancing Queen’s apartment door, but I don’t even pause to check it. I head straight inside to look at the phone.
The wallpaper is of the full-length photo of me that Giovanni took to the Sip the other day. Sure enough, it’s been blown up and there’s a dart lodged in the nuts.
I laugh, but to be honest, it’s a disappointment.
I was hoping for some photos of her.
But then I click into the photos app, and there they are, like a wrapped gift waiting beneath the tree.
There are snaps of Lucy wearing my mother’s scarf all around town.
In one of them, she’s grimacing at the flyer of me; in another, she’s wrapping the scarf around a dirty snowman.
In a third, she and Charlie are playing tug of war with it.
In a fourth, she’s rubbing her face against it as if it’s cat fur, her eyes closed, her full lips lifted in pleasure.
A smile spreads across my face. Lucy clearly thinks she stuck it to me with these photos, but she doesn’t realize she’s been gallivanting around town in a scarf everyone will no doubt recognize as mine—the one thing of my mother’s I chose to keep.
It’s not something that should make me happy, given I wanted to keep a low profile in town, but I feel a deep, thrumming satisfaction from it. So I decide I’m keeping the phone, too, until she agrees to take it back.
I take out my own cell and text her number:
Nice photos. Now everyone in town knows who you’ve been out with. That’s good. None of the other guys will bother you. ;-)
But why’d you return the phone? Something wrong with it? Don’t you like nice things?
She doesn’t respond, but for all I know the text didn’t go through. I feel like a caged animal waiting.
Hours later, she still hasn’t responded. I spend half the night awake, checking my phone, carrying it around the apartment in the hope it’ll get the only bar of reliable service in Hideaway Harbor. I’m acting like Aria did when she was a teenager, and I don’t love it.
I take a long shower and jerk off, but it feels pathetic—a pale shadow of the sensation of Lucy running her fingers over me through my pants. She barely even touched me, and it’s all I can think about. Damn it. Maybe she’s ahead in the hate-off after all.
The next afternoon, when Giovanni, Nico, and I get to The Sweetest Thing, it’s already packed, but the crowd parts like the Red Sea to make room for us as we take off our coats.
Okay, the Hidies part like the Red Sea. The tourists remain rooted to their spots, scattered throughout the store with their hands full of candy canes and treats.
A few of them are wearing Larry the Lobstah hats, presumably in preparation for the tree lighting later.
Nico and I walk Giovanni through the entrance to Portia, who’s waiting at the door leading to the candy kitchen, her colorful hair covered by a translucent hygiene cap.
She’s holding a box of sterile gloves and talking to Eileen.
Lucy’s standing with them, and from the scowl she gives me—and her bare neck—I’m guessing she definitely got my text message last night. I wave to her. She does not wave back.
Charlie and Lars are with their group; Lars gives me a quick nod, which I return.
The plate glass window in front of the candy kitchen has been completely cleared of displays and merchandise, allowing an unobstructed view of what goes on inside.
“There he is,” Portia says with a grin as Giovanni comes to a stop next to her. “Well, let’s get right to it. Take your shirt off and show us the goods.”
He flashes her a victorious look. “You won’t want me doing that.”
She quirks her brow. “We advertised that it’s happening shirtless. It needs to happen shirtless.”
“Get on either side of me, guys,” he tells us, and Nico and I fall in beside him, acting as human walls while he lifts the hem of his shirt and flashes the red-lettered message at Portia.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she growls, “pull your shirt down. There are kids here.”
“Exactly,” he says in an undertone, “which is why it’s better this way.
I wore a festive shirt.” He gestures to his red T-shirt.
Its sleeves and hems are lined with puffy white paint to mimic Santa’s coat.
“Besides, wouldn’t it be unhygienic for me to do it shirtless?
What if my chest hair got into the candy? ”
She gives him a murderous look. “They’re expecting shirtless. It was part of our deal.”
“It is a pity,” Eileen says worriedly. “We wouldn’t want to be accused of fraudulent advertising with the flyers.”
Charlie laughs silently while Lars wraps an arm around her. But my gaze naturally settles on Lucy, who’s looking at me with accusation in her eyes. “You did this.”
“Me?” I scoff. “You think I wrote on my brother’s chest? He’s a big boy, Lucy. He did it all himself.”
Giovanni nods.
“With my marker,” she adds. “It was, wasn’t it?”
He gives her a pointed look. “If it was your marker, what was it doing under one of the shelves at Hidden Italy?”
Her cheeks flush.
“You’re a real dick, Giovanni,” Portia says, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you pulled this.”
Lucy clears her throat, drawing everyone else’s attention back to her—not mine, because mine never really left.
“It seems only fair if one of you”—her finger toggles between Nico and me—“takes his place. You said the person who bought a date with you could decide what the date would entail, and Portia asked for shirtless.”
“I did,” Portia says, grinning at Lucy. “Thank you, Lucy. You get it.”
“It has to be Enzo,” Charlie says.
Lars looks like someone just shoved a hot poker up his ass.
Maybe he remembers the time I threatened to maim him if he ever hurt my sister.
I sure remember. But I’ve already decided to give him a pass.
My sister’s happy. She wanted a break from Hideaway, and she got it.
Then there’s Lucy. She probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I maimed her best friend’s future husband.
So, yeah, Lars gets off scot-free as long as he keeps his mouth shut.
“It does,” Lucy says, agreeing with Charlie. “Definitely Enzo.”
“Why?” I ask calmly, meeting Lucy’s gaze. Her eyes are shining with victory, and I’ll be honest. I want to kiss her. I’m almost desperate for it. The way she’s looking at me, like she’s sure she’s won, only makes me want it more.
“Because you had the easiest date. All you had to do was have dinner by yourself.”
“I am good company,” I say thoughtfully, while Nico laughs.
“What’s wrong with my shirt?” Giovanni asks, his tone sulky. “Can you really blame me for not wanting to be objectified?”
“No,” Portia says, snorting. “But if you didn’t want to be objectified, you probably shouldn’t have auctioned yourself off. You backed yourself into this corner, and one of you Cafieros will be taking his shirt off.”
My brothers both look at me, and Nico says, “Hey, man, I already have to pose for that ice thing, and it was your idea.”
I hand my coat to him. Then I watch Lucy as I tug my long-sleeved red T-shirt over my head. The look on her face tells me that even though I lost this round, I might have won anyway.
I toss my shirt to her.