Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
BIANCA
I suggested driving to the apple barn so we could grab a ball cap for Giovanni—he’d left his behind in his room—but he pointed out that wearing an Evergreens & Apples hat would confirm his identity, not conceal it.
So I texted Em, asking if we could buy a new hat from the shipment that had just arrived at the bookstore, and she agreed to meet us in the town parking lot closest to Little Apple Books.
Although she’s not working tonight, she lives in a cramped one-room apartment directly over the shop.
It’s unbelievably drafty—too cold in winter, too warm in the summer—but it’s all hers.
Sometimes I’m jealous of that. I love my big, chaotic family, but I wouldn’t mind loving them from more of a distance.
Now, Giovanni and I are sitting in my parked car in the parking lot, waiting for her, while he finishes wolfing down his energy bars.
“I’ll bet you don’t have people cook for you often if you’re some sort of mega chef,” I comment.
He laughs as he unwraps the rest of the final bar. “I wouldn’t say anyone’s cooked for me tonight.”
I nudge his shoulder. “Bite your tongue. This is a Bianca Murphy special, and you’d best enjoy it. My grandmother never lets me do the cooking, so this is as close as I come most days. They’re good for when you’re on the run.”
He lifts his eyebrows as he finishes the last of the bar. I watch him swallow, my eyes tracking the movement of his Adam’s apple.
“Is that her?” he asks, squinting past me. “Or is that someone who’s decided to steal your car?”
I turn toward the window and laugh as I see Em approaching us from the side of the lot. She’s wearing a dark hoodie, the hood pulled over her distinctive red hair, and glancing shiftily from side to side.
“It feels like we’re doing a drug deal,” Giovanni mutters.
Emily taps on my window, and I roll it down, suddenly fighting laughter, because yes, this is like a drug deal on some bad TV drama.
She pushes a pink hat through the window. “Look, I’m sorry, but this is the only one we had in extra-large.”
I take it from her and turn it so the words are visible to both me and Giovanni.
Smut Slut in cursive, printed over a red heart. Giovanni eyes it doubtfully, while I struggle not to laugh.
“And this is supposed to help me go unnoticed?” He gestures at the hat still gripped in my hand.
“You’re a tall, good-looking Italian guy in a small town,” Emily points out. “You’re going to get noticed regardless, but hopefully they’ll be laughing at you and not asking themselves why you look so familiar.”
Giovanni smiles, his eyes lighting up. Hooking a thumb toward Emily, he says, “Hey, your friend thinks I’m hot.”
I lean toward him and put the cap on his head, pausing to tuck some of his dark, glossy hair beneath it. My heart is beating faster than it should, my fingers tingling, but I ignore my reaction to him and study the cap’s effect, smiling.
He looks adorable, his dark hair tucked under the hat, his heavily lashed eyes peeking out from under it.
“I like it. It gives you character.”
He bends the brim into an arch. “I already have character.”
“You want a different character,” Emily says. “That’s why we didn’t get you a chef’s hat. That’ll be thirty bucks, by the way.”
“Highway robbery,” Giovanni mutters, but he’s already pulling out his wallet. He hands her a couple of twenties. “Keep the change.”
She hesitates before pocketing the bills. “I’ll pick out the perfect book for you with it.”
“No need. I’m not much for books, but I know they cost more than ten dollars these days.”
“Yes, but you’ll feel more obligated to read it if she’s spent some of her own money on it,” I say fondly, very familiar with Emily’s patented sales technique.
She loves finding every person she meets the “perfect” book for them.
She loves it so much, in fact, that she often takes it upon herself to gift said perfect book to them.
Mr. Campbell has plenty to say about that, but since she buys the books using her own money, he can’t stop her.
Besides, her mad methods work. She’s made readers out of several people in town, including everyone in her book club at The Rotten Apple.
“All right,” Giovanni agrees with a nod.
Em shifts her gaze to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I know what that means: you will be telling me everything tomorrow, or I will hunt you down.
I nod, and she takes off, pulling her hood tighter as she leaves.
Turning in my seat, I smile at Giovanni and adjust his hat. “All right, Smut Slut, are you ready?”
“Is that my new nickname?” he asks, his voice a sexy rumble.
“I think so. I’m going to use it every time you call me Dr. Death.”
His smile should be illegal in at least ten states, maybe all fifty. “You’d better hope I don’t take a liking to it, then.”
He gets out of the car, and I suck in a deep breath and get out too, reminding myself the prettier the man, the more problems he can cause you, and Giovanni Cafiero is very pretty.
And once word spreads that he’s here, every unattached woman in town will probably want to throw her panties in the ring.
They won’t even need to know he’s the Shirtless Chef.
They’ll only care that he’s tall and handsome and new to town.
“Where are we going?” he asks as I lead him across the road to the sidewalk on the other side.
A couple of tourists pass us. The man probably thinks he’s being discreet when he points out Giovanni’s hat to his wife, but he’s as subtle as Luanne is quiet.
Giovanni seems completely unfazed as he waits for my answer.
I clear my throat. “I’m bringing you for dessert. Seems only right since you made me dinner.”
We pass one of the art installations that decorate the small downtown area.
All of them are, wait for it, apples. This one’s a huge mosaic piece, complete with a small mosaic worm composed of beads.
It’s large enough to sit on, and tourists do sometimes, but no one from Apple Ridge would dare.
The artist is notoriously, and rightfully, protective of her work.
“These didn’t used to be here,” Giovanni says, brushing his fingers over it as we pass.
“No,” I agree. “They were part of a town rejuvenation project several years ago. Back when the mayor didn’t suck.”
I can feel him studying me as we move along, ignoring the teenage girls who giggle at the sight of him in his pink hat.
“The rejuvenation didn’t work, though, did it?” he asks, his gaze on me.
I shrug my shoulder, not comfortable with pressuring him more today. If it’s unfair to put the farm’s success on his broad shoulders, it would be downright presumptuous to ask him to save the whole town. “Plenty of people around here don’t want more tourists.”
But we need them anyway.
I lead him off Main Street, and then we walk past Little Apple Books.
The inviting windows look out onto the street, showcasing all the work Emily has done to transform Mr. Campbell’s shop.
It’s bright and cheerful inside, with an adorable children’s nook in the back, a young adult section with a paper dragon swooping over it, and a whole corner devoted to romance.
Turning to Giovanni with a smile, I say, “That’s where your hat comes from.”
He flashes the storefront the middle finger, making me laugh.
We pass a cute wooden bench, where many people sit and read their purchases from Little Apple Books, and finally I pause in front of The Clean Plate Club.
The name is painted onto a blue dinner plate fixed to the edifice.
Inside, it has classic diner décor, with red-upholstered booths and a jukebox that famously plays only Patsy Cline.
Giovanni pauses outside, his brow wrinkling. “I remember this place. Miles and I went here a few times.”
I grin at him. “Do you remember Luanne from earlier? You might have met her here. This was her place back then.”
I thought he’d be pleased, or maybe amused, but his expression drops.
“That was the lady who used to run the diner?” He rubs his brow, his fingers knocking against the brim of the hat he seems to have forgotten he’s wearing.
“I remember her and her husband, that guy with all the polka-dot bow ties. How’d she end up in a home? ”
“She chose to be there.” I knock my arm against his lightly.
“Her husband passed a while back, and then a couple of years ago she had a stroke and couldn’t live alone anymore.
Her son lives in Paris. Paris, France, not the one in Texas.
He invited her to live with him, but she couldn’t see her way toward leaving Apple Ridge. ”
He looks like I just announced that she only has two weeks left to live. “So…what…she’s going to spend the rest of her life in that place? She had her own diner, her own family, and now she’s all alone?”
“She’s not all alone.”
He hesitates, his gaze lingering on my face. “No, I suppose she has you.”
Warmth fills my chest, because he says that like it’s not such a bad thing. “And Emily. Emily has basically adopted her. Besides, the retirement home’s not bad.”
“You call it The Rotten Apple.”
I smile ruefully. “It’s not so great either, but at least she’s around lots of folks who care about her. She has people checking in with her. People her own age who appreciate her for who she is now and don’t just notice how much she’s changed.”
He looks called out for a full ten seconds, but then his expression shifts to teasing. “Does the place smell like pee, though? I’ve heard all retirement homes smell like pee.”
No point in lying. “Sometimes. Sometimes it smells a lot worse. But I do everything in my power to make sure everyone’s just as happy as they can be.”
He watches me with interest for a long moment, and I swipe hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. I hadn’t meant to get on my soapbox.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Never be sorry for trying to make the world a better place.” His gaze is more intense now, and I can feel it dancing across my skin. “I admire you, Bianca.”