Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BIANCA
“So, what you’re telling me is that I pissed off Mr. Mayor,” Giovanni says as he flings a dishcloth over his shoulder.
My gaze hungrily follows the motion before snapping back to his face. He shaved this morning, and it turns out having a clean-shaven face with a heavy five-o’clock shadow suits him as much as his almost-there beard did.
“Yes,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush.
He stirs the pan of butternut squash risotto in front of him. The whole kitchen smells like autumn—warm squash, nutmeg, and a twist of lemon.
The nonnas would normally be crowded in here with him, overseeing his process, but they’re enjoying a glass of wine in the sunroom and playing poker with Nonna Francesca’s lucky deck.
Although my nonna claims she’s completely aware that the relationship between Giovanni and me is fake, I suspect that their disappearing act is their way of “letting the magic happen.”
Giovanni starts humming as he continues to stir the risotto, completely unbothered by the thought of Rhett having it out for him.
“You didn’t agree to make dinner for the winner,” I say, annoyed. “We can’t let Rhett get away with this.”
He shrugs and lifts the spoon for a taste. “I don’t really care.”
“You don’t care that he’s manipulating you? He already maneuvered you into talking to the press.”
Apparently, It’s Not Gossip magazine is interested in doing a feature on Giovanni, and he’s agreed. The interview is going to take place next Sunday.
He gives me an arch look, his lips creeping up slightly in a show of humor. “What can I say? Maybe I’m getting used to it.”
His words send a surge of guilt through me. I know exactly what he means, and he has every right to feel that way. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll figure out how to deal with Rhett. This is my fuckup.”
I turn to walk away, but he reaches for me, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. When I turn toward him, he’s only inches away, smelling of forest and lemon and our apple barn.
“I’m the one who challenged him,” he says, “so you can say it’s our fuckup.” There’s an edge of wildness in his smile. Like maybe he still wants to kiss me, despite everything.
“But it’s not an issue,” he continues. “He failed to set a menu, so if someone else wins, I can make them a grilled cheese sandwich or a peanut butter and jelly. But that’s not going to happen. We’re going to win, naturally, so I’ll only be making dinner for you.”
Suddenly, I feel dangerously close to tears. “And you wouldn’t mind making dinner for me?”
He glances back at the stove. “Clearly not. I’ve seen what you eat when you don’t have anyone looking after you.”
“My nonna—”
“Deserves to have someone cook for her, just like mine does. I hope when I’m in my eighties I’ll have at least one grandchild who enjoys cooking for me.”
I swallow, taken aback by the thought of Giovanni with children. Grandchildren. I can imagine him cooking with them, teaching them the classic recipes his family taught him. They’d all love him, of course.
It’s natural to love someone like Giovanni, who’s easy and sweet and fun.
He releases my wrist, then gestures to the refrigerator. “I bought some of that wine you like. Why don’t you pour yourself a glass and sit down? You must have been on your feet all day.”
“You shouldn’t be nice to me,” I say, feeling like a complete asshole. “It’s my fault you’ve got all these people harassing you and Rhett breathing down your neck.”
He laughs, his eyes crinkling. “You think I’m worried about Rhett? Please. Let him come for me. I’d savor the challenge.”
Dammit. That shouldn’t be sexy, but it is. Ridiculously, makes-me-want-to-drop-my-panties-in-the-kitchen sexy.
I lick my lips and catch Giovanni watching, which sends another wave of awareness through me. “I don’t want him to win the apple pie bake-off,” I finally say. “I don’t want him to win anything.”
One corner of his mouth lifts as he stirs the risotto again. “He didn’t win you, cara, so he’ll always be a loser. But don’t worry about the apple pie. I’m going to start experimenting. I’ve been talking to Nico about it too. He’s a better cook than I am.”
“I doubt it.”
I get out the wine so I’ll have something to do with my hands, and he smiles as I take out two glasses.
“Is that one for me?” he asks.
“Of course. You know my way of providing for people is to serve them things prepared by others.”
I pour us both some wine and give him his glass, noticing my hand is shaking slightly. I must be worried about presenting Luanne’s offer to him.
“What is it?” Giovanni raises his eyebrows. “Is this still about Mr. Mayor? Would you like me to make him choke on my s’mores? Or should I challenge him to a pumpkin-carving competition in the town square? Seems like that would be speaking his language.”
I smile. “I’d like to see that, but no. Luanne has offered to teach you her secret apple pie recipe.”
“The one in the diner?” he asks, screwing his mouth to one side. “It was uncommonly good.”
“Hers is even better. She has one secret ingredient that she never shared with anyone, not even the new owner of the diner, but she’s agreed to share it with you.”
“In exchange for what?” he asks, smiling slightly. “My firstborn child? My dignity? I sold that the minute I began this farce.”
I can’t help but frown at him. “What are you talking about? Everyone loves you.”
“But they don’t respect me. My grandmother says no one respects a man who removes his shirt before he speaks.”
I set my wine glass down on the counter with a click.
“With all due respect, the nonnas aren’t exactly modern in their thinking.
People do respect you. Haven’t you seen some of those comments?
Your videos have helped people with anxiety, and they feel approachable for people who are scared of cooking. ”
“There are also lots of comments from people who’d like me to take the rest of my clothes off.”
My mouth goes dry, and I can feel my cheeks flaming.
Truthfully, I’m one of those people. I’ve seen the videos, but better yet, I’ve seen him.
The lines and curves of his body are so perfectly sculpted Michelangelo himself might have carved him.
I have devoted far too much thought to it at night when I’m all alone.
But I try to keep my composure and say, “You could soothe their anxiety and turn them on. It’s possible to do both. And what’s so wrong with getting a bunch of people hot? It could be said that’s a public service too. Apparently you’re very popular at the retirement home.”
His smile makes his face almost painful to look at. It’s far too beautiful, and he’s been too kind, caring for my family as if it were his own.
I clear my throat, trying to act cool and casual. “So will you do it? Will you let Luanne teach you her recipe?”
“She won’t just give me a written copy?”
I shake my head. “She says she’ll teach you at the retirement home.”
His nose scrunches, and I know he’s not fully convinced.
“Think about it for a couple of days,” I say, not wanting to push him into anything else. God knows he’s already done enough for our family, and after I gave him a shitty welcome.
“I will.”
“And do you want to practice for the s’mores competition?”
He doesn’t attempt to hide his grin. “Are we allowed to bring our own materials?”
“Yes.” I frown in distaste. “I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if Mr. Mayor rescheduled just so he could hire a pastry chef to make all of his materials.”
Giovanni gives the risotto a final stir, the movement hypnotic, and takes the pan off the heat.
“Let him. People don’t like s’mores because they’re fancy.
They like them because they remind them of bonfires and flannel blankets and charred marshmallows.
That’s what we’ll give to them. A real Apple Ridge s’more.
But we’ll make the graham crackers. I’ve always wanted to learn how to make graham crackers. ”
“And the marshmallows?” I ask, my throat dry.
He grins at me, his eyeteeth looking sharp enough to bite. “You can make them, Bianca. We all know you’re sweetness and light.”
I nudge him with my shoulder, and he nudges back, and suddenly I’m thrown back in time sixteen years, to when Giovanni and Miles announced a tickle competition.
The first person to laugh would lose, and the person who held out the longest would win.
I don’t even know what the prize was, but all of us kids took it very seriously, even Giovanni’s big brother, Enzo, who didn’t have an ounce of silliness in his body.
Giovanni didn’t break until it was my turn to try him. I tickled under his armpit, and he burst out laughing after five seconds, who knows why. Miles had tried his pits before I did and failed to get so much as a smile out of him.
“Do you remember when you lost that tickle competition you started?” I ask.
He smiles at me. “It was a low blow to go for the armpits.”
“I like winning.”
His smile widens. “So I’ve noticed. But I only broke because you made me nervous, not because you memorized where I was most ticklish.”
“Nervous?” I say with a laugh. “What do you—?”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. Who can remember? Anyway, we should get the ingredients for the s’mores ready ahead of time, but not until your next day off. You work hard enough.”
I peer at him in surprise. “How would you know?”
“I know,” he says firmly, and I believe he does. Somehow, he notices me. Knows me.
“Let’s make a plan for Friday morning. I switched shifts with the other daytime RN so I could have Friday and Saturday off.”
He nods. “Friday. We’ll do it. I’ll get the groceries.”
“I’ll figure out how to make a fucking marshmallow.”
“And don’t worry about Mr. Mayor. Who could keep Bianca Murphy down? He’s not up to the task.”
I’m smiling as I help him carry the food into the dining room, and I can’t lie: I might not have wanted Giovanni Cafiero to come here, but I don’t want him to leave.