Chapter 1 #3
“Ah, finally.” My nonna grins as she lowers her wine glass onto the worn wooden counter next to the stove.
Nonna Francesca sets the ladle down on a ceramic plate and turns toward me, surprising me when she steps forward and wraps me into a hug.
“You’re too thin, amore. But all grown up and such a woman. You look just like your grandmother did when I first met her.” She pulls back, holding me by the shoulders. “Madonn’, the passing of the years.”
Unlike my grandmother, who immigrated to the United States when she was a small child, Nonna Francesca moved from Sicily as a young woman. She still has a lilting accent.
Nonna Francesca dabs at her eyes, leaving me completely baffled. I don’t remember her as a woman who cries. The last time I saw this woman, she told my grandmother she was going to outlive her just so she could spit on her grave.
Admittedly, my grandmother has a hot temper too—all of us Murphys do.
I cast a confused glance at my nonna, who’s smiling and nodding. “Isn’t this a good surprise?”
Not really. We’re in the middle of a family crisis. The last thing we need is a visitor who enjoys throwing apple grenades.
But I force a smile. “Of course. Are you passing through on your way to somewhere exciting, Mrs. Cafiero?”
She gives me a disapproving look, her lips thinning out. “Nonna Francesca.”
“Of course she’s not passing through,” Nonna Rose contributes, clucking her tongue. “I invited her and her—”
“Bianca,” a deep, rich male voice says from behind me.
I whirl around and find myself face to—well, chest—with a tall, delicious-smelling man.
I glance upward, and the view only improves.
He has light-brown eyes, fringed with dark lashes, dark hair, and stubble.
He’d look like he’d been ripped from a Versace ad if he weren’t wearing an old green T-shirt, the sleeves tight around his biceps, a gold chain, and a pair of worn blue jeans.
He’s one of the Cafiero boys, no doubt about that.
It’s been years since I’ve seen any of them in person, and all of the boys look alike, but somehow I know he’s Giovanni. Maybe when you kiss someone, they leave an imprint on your soul.
For a second, it feels like the air has been sucked from my lungs, but I know better than to be drawn in by a pretty face. The man I almost married has a pretty face, and I promised myself never to fall for another showboat.
I straighten my back and stare up into Giovanni’s eyes as if they’re the color of dishwater, not pools of sin.
“You look exactly the same,” he says, sounding pretty pleased with himself. His grin stretches wider, revealing white, even teeth.
I cross my arms under my substantial chest. “You’re saying I look exactly like I did at thirteen?”
His gaze wanders downward before returning to my face, which shouldn’t feel like a victory but does. “Your personality seems unchanged too.” He sniffs, his brow creasing. “Is that…?”
“Your nose doesn’t deceive you. It’s vomit.”
Amusement dances in his eyes. “And do you smell like that on purpose?”
If I hadn’t already guessed which Cafiero he was, I would have known now. His brothers used to call him Chief Shit Stirrer when their grandmother wasn’t listening.
“Giovanni,” I say tightly. “You seem exactly the same too. What are you doing here on a Monday night? Don’t you have a job?”
Last I heard, he and his little brother were running the family’s business—a gourmet grocery-slash-catering business called Hidden Italy—in their small coastal Maine town whose name I can’t remember.
His nonna gives him a sour look as she lifts an age-spotted hand to her neck. “I’ve prayed many rosaries for this boy.”
Not exactly an answer, but Giovanni seems to know exactly what she means.
He has a hangdog look as he runs a hand across his stubbled jaw.
“My brother Nico’s taking care of the family business for a while.
Nonna Francesca and I were invited to spend a couple of months helping out at your farm.
I thought you knew. Your grandmother said everyone was cool with it. ”
I whip a disbelieving glare at Nonna Rose.
These people are going to be living with us for two months?
What adult male willingly abandons his life for that long to visit his grandmother’s friend?
Either a saint or a sinner, and judging by past experience, I have a pretty good guess as to which he is.
I shift my gaze back to Giovanni, who at least has the grace to look uneasy.
My nonna beams at me, as if this situation is perfectly normal.
“We could use help with the fall rush,” she says as if she expects there to still be one after our recent setbacks.
“There’s plenty of room in the house, God knows, and Francesca and Giovanni have offered to stay until the end of October.
There’ll be plenty of work for your brother now that Ted’s gone. ”
That’s when it hits me.
My grandmother doesn’t do anything without a purpose.
She didn’t just invite Giovanni as an add-on to his grandmother.
They’re here because she’s hoping my brother’s best friend from childhood might be the bait that lures Miles home.