Chapter 18
LUCY
I’m still holding Enzo’s shirt, gaping at his well-defined back and the small Trinacria tattoo on his shoulder blade, as he follows Portia into the kitchen.
But I’m hardly the only one staring. Every woman in The Sweetest Thing is ogling him, along with some of the men.
Who could blame us? Enzo’s back looks positively pornographic.
It’s muscular and surprisingly tan given that it’s December in Maine.
And then there’s his chest, which is sculpted and beautiful and…
And a couple of days ago he had his head between my legs, and I’ve been thinking about it almost every moment since.
Worse, I’ve been thinking about all the times he’s made me laugh despite myself.
Enzo turns and waves out of the candy kitchen window, smirking at me. Like he knows exactly what’s going through my head and why.
Like he’s won.
No way. I won.
I wave the shirt at him like it’s a victory flag, but it smells like his expensive cologne, and I have the horrible urge to lift it up to my nose for a sniff.
No, I will be strong.
Turning toward Enzo’s brother Giovanni, who looks amused, I shove the shirt at him. “Here. You can hold his sweaty shirt for him.”
“You don’t want it?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You ladies were desperate for him to strip, so I figured you’d want the shirt as a souvenir. You can add it to the scarf. Maybe you’ll have enough to dress a whole snowman someday.”
“Excuse me?” Charlie says, her arms crossed. “Are you implying my friend has an interest in stealing your rude brother’s pants?”
He lifts his hands. “Just making a seasonal joke. No harm intended.”
My cheeks are burning, but I straighten my back. “I didn’t know it was his scarf,” I lie. “It was in the Lost and Found at the Sip.”
He barely suppresses a grin. “Ain’t that a thing. I don’t think he’s been in there since that business with Rachelle.”
“He blessed us with his presence for Santa Speed Dating,” I say sweetly. “Must’ve left it then.”
“I guess so,” he says, running a hand across his chin.
“Yeah. I only put it on because it looked really old, and I figured no one wanted it. I didn’t know it was his until someone identified it.”
“It is old. My mother made that scarf.”
My head whips over to peer at Enzo through the window. He’s arguing with Portia about something in an undertone that can’t be heard through the glass.
He kept his mother’s scarf even though she left them.
He wrapped it around my neck, knowing people would see it.
Worst of all: his grandmother saw me wearing it.
She must know…
Honestly, I don’t even know what there is to know other than that this thing between Enzo and me has gotten very confusing.
I’d hoped Lobster Stalker would answer my note this morning, giving me someone else to focus on—a man who’s compassionate and capable of sharing his feelings—but when I left for the taffy pulling, the card I’d left for him was still sitting out there in the hallway. Ignored.
Maybe he’s a senior citizen who just moved into assisted living.
Regardless, he can hardly compete with the very real, very aggravating, and impossibly beautiful man who’s preparing to pull taffy across from me.
Giovanni is still studying me, I realize, waiting for some kind of response.
I clear my throat. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t unravel the knitting after I found out the scarf was Enzo’s.”
I’d thought about it, to be honest. His texts had been so smug, and I could just imagine the look on his face, his brow raised, the corners of his lips turned up.
Giovanni laughs, shrugging. “I wouldn’t have cared. It’s Enzo who’s sentimental about stuff like that.”
“That doesn’t sound like him at all.”
He shrugs his shoulder. “Sure. Maybe you’re right. I’ve only known him for over thirty years.”
I look away, duly chastised.
“Our condolences,” Charlie says, saving me from answering. She delivers the takedown with a teasing smile, though, and Enzo’s brothers don’t seem offended.
“Thank you,” Giovanni says. “We gratefully accept them. He’s only been home for a few weeks, and he already has us auctioning ourselves off.
Changing the schedule at the shop. Switching suppliers.
But I can’t complain. He’s been fixing my mistakes since I was too young to understand that I didn’t have to wear the suspenders Nonna gave us. ”
My heart throbs as I push the shirt at Giovanni again, willing him to take it before I do something truly insane like pull it on.
“So he was always controlling,” I say in a choked voice.
“Always,” Nico says with a snort. “But he always stood up for us too. There’s a reason we agreed to this insanity.”
He motions to the kitchen window as Portia shoves a Santa hat at Enzo, who takes it with obvious reluctance and puts it on.
Giovanni still hasn’t taken the shirt from me. I don’t offer it again, my fingers squeezing the cloth without permission from my brain.
“Yes, Enzo’s so protective of you three,” Eileen says. I glance over to see she has her phone camera trained at Enzo, taking photos as if she’s a paparazzo. “Ever since you were little.”
That’s right. Eileen was friendly with his mother, and I still haven’t asked her about it. I’d like to ask her now—I have a whole baker’s dozen of questions—but Enzo wouldn’t like that much. For some reason, that matters.
Eileen gets on her toes and takes a photo from a different angle.
I haven’t told her about Nonna Francesca’s visit to the coffee shop to see her about making a match for Enzo, but it’s possible someone else did.
What if she’s not just photographing him for Portia? What if she plans on sharing those photos with single women around town?
The thought puts a sour twist in my stomach.
“Keep the shirt,” Charlie says, nudging my arm. “We can auction it off.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t recommend that,” Nico interjects. “Auctions are a slippery slope, unless you’re Giovanni. Then you get off scot-free.”
Giovanni laughs. “So you say. Enzo’s going to get lucky tonight. No doubt about it. All I’ll have to show for this is some taffy with my brother’s chest hair in it.”
Everyone around us laughs with him, except for Lars, who still seems nervous to be surrounded by Cafieros. And me. I can’t even force a smile. That sour feeling in my stomach is growing.
“All right, friends,” Portia says, addressing us through the window. “The demonstration is about to begin. First, let’s start with a round of applause for my helper here.”
Everyone applauds, and someone wolf-whistles.
“His little brother Giovanni was supposed to help me, but he has a super gnarly rash. Really disgusting with lots of bumps and pustules and whatnot. We didn’t want to subject all of you to that.
” She blows a kiss at Giovanni, who shakes his head, his mouth quirked in amusement.
“We’re pulling peppermint taffy today to celebrate the season, and we’re giving away all of it to you lovely people, aren’t we? ”
Enzo lifts his hand in a wave. “Ho ho ho.”
He says it so grumpily I can’t help but laugh.
I don’t want him to see me laughing, though, so I press my lips together as Portia pours hot taffy over the cold metal surface of a long table inside the kitchen.
She guides us through what she’s doing, and the majority of the people in the store stand rapt, their attention laser-focused on Portia and Enzo.
Portia has just finished spreading the taffy when a woman enters the store through the side entrance, her cap pulled low over her face. Eileen looks back, as if she were expecting this, and waves the woman over, beaming.
That’s when I recognize Amanda—and realize she’s heading straight for me.
I grin at her as she gets closer, then whisper, “How did your wish go the other night?”
She smiles back and says in an undertone, “I think it brought me here. Do you know Portia?”
“I do.” I give her a meaningful look. “She’s someone who’s defiantly herself. I’ve always admired that about her.”
“Me too,” she says, peering through the window with that million-dollar smile of hers.
I’m giddy, the way Eileen must feel when she realizes she’s played a part in something beautiful.
“Do I look incognito?” Amanda whispers, leaning into me.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “But don’t let that stop you.”
She squeezes my hand. “I won’t. Thanks, Lucy. I’ll come by and see you soon.”
She offers me a final smile before releasing me and edging in next to Eileen, who greets her with a warm hug and then whispers something in her ear.
Portia notices her, and although she doesn’t wave, her whole face lights up as she talks about the importance of getting enough air bubbles in the taffy.
Enzo spots Amanda as well and smiles at me, his eyes twinkling. As if to say: I did this.
Of course he feels responsible.
He probably thinks he can get the whole world to march at his command.
Still, I can’t deny my attention is hyperfocused on him as Portia lifts the ropes of taffy up and layers them over his arms, as if he’s holding garland to decorate a tree.
“Now, this is where Santa’s muscles are going to come in handy,” she says with a smirk at the window. At Amanda. “He’s going to stretch the taffy to get the right amount of air into it.”
He starts, his muscles bunching with the movement.
“Harder,” she says.
“Did every woman in here just ovulate?” Charlie whispers in my ear. “Other than me, of course.”
Probably. I certainly did.
“Come on, Santa. Give it some muscle,” Portia says.
And he does. Oh, how he does.
“Ho ho ho,” I hear one woman murmur to her friend, who replies, “I have a renewed belief in Santa Claus.”
I tighten my grip on the fabric of Enzo’s shirt, still clutched to my chest, as I watch his arms rhythmically pull the taffy.
A hot, needy longing steals over my body, changing me.
Because I don’t recognize this woman who wants a real man—not a fictional, perfect man straight out of the pages of a book or my mother’s letter.