Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BIANCA
SOCIAL MEDIA THREADS ABOUT MARSHMALLOW-GATE
HELEN-THE OG SHIRTIE: I’m selling them on eBay, sweetheart.
MissIndependent: I think Bianca should get fired. She could have BBQed all those old people in their beds.
TheFutureMrsCafiero: Agreed. I’m sending a note to your boss. You should be ashamed of yourself, Bianca!
HOTforGiovanni: Do you think this was staged?
Imhisshirt: It totally looks staged, and now someone’s selling T-shirts.
HOTforGiovanni: I bought one, but I don’t like being lied to.
YesChef67: Okay, y’all, don’t come for me, but I have a conspiracy theory.
YesChef67: I don’t think Giovanni’s the OG Shirtless chef.
YesChef67: If he is, where are the videos? What’s he doing out there in the middle of nowhere?
YesChef67: I think he’s, like, some body double. THOUGHTS?
Notinmykitchen: Is anyone else so totally invested in this story?
Notinmykitchen: You know, I heard Bianca’s brother was in this major car accident a while back.
Notinmykitchen: He was the only survivor.
Notinmykitchen: Suspicious?!
I flex my fingers, warring with the need to respond to all of the conspiracy theories about Marshmallow-gate and the knowledge that responding will automatically make everything worse.
It’s early evening, and I’m sitting in the kitchen while Giovanni cooks for us.
My entire family has heard about the kerfuffle, naturally.
The fire department is required by law to show up in response to every fire alarm at The Rotten Apple, and the on-duty fireman is married to the biggest gossip in town.
He blabbed, she blabbed, and now everyone in town knows that I accidentally caused a fire—and that Giovanni put it out with his shirt.
I’d like to think people are also talking about our homemade graham crackers and marshmallows, which we handed out after the fireman showed up, because they were out-of-this-world delicious. But let’s be honest: no one cared about the goodies when the story about the fire was so much sweeter.
Isabella sent me a text message with about thirty question marks, which I answered with a thumbs-up. (She called me five seconds later.)
Emily straight up called me four times until I answered and told her everything. (Almost everything. Giovanni was in the room, so I couldn’t tell her about this morning, though I did admit “something” happened.)
Theo, bless him, offered to give the nonnas dinner at his house, because he suspected—correctly—that I wasn’t ready to face an inquisition after my attempted BBQing of my place of employment.
A few minutes ago, he texted to say they were staying late to watch a few episodes of The Golden Girls, which prompted a further swell of gratitude.
As much as I love Nonna Rose, I don’t have the energy to face her right now.
Rhett called me half an hour ago to discuss the incident, and he seemed practically gleeful.
As the owner of The Rotten Apple, you’d think his concern would be for the building and the residents, but he only cares about his bottom line.
And the fact is, people are even more interested in Giovanni today than they were yesterday.
A couple of the residents did film the whole incident, and they tagged Giovanni’s social media account when they posted their extremely shaky cam footage.
Since Giovanni hasn’t posted anything following his video about our fake relationship, the videos immediately went viral, and everything has spun out from there.
People on the internet are calling him a hero, a fraud, and everything in between, and half an hour ago a high school student from the school paper showed up at our front door requesting an interview.
She got directions from her grandmother Marjorie, who has been a Shirtie for a week.
If the farmhouse weren’t hidden away among the trees and winding paths of the farm, I suspect “real” reporters would have shown up too, though I suspect it’s only a matter of time.
Giovanni sets a large glass of wine down next to me. “For the lady. Helen gave us this bottle. You think she gave it to me because she knew she’d have a rush on T-shirt sales?”
I make eye contact with him and feel a definite flutter. Not just because he’s handsome, or because he makes me feel good, but because he’s a good man. A true hero.
“Definitely,” I say. “Did you see she’s selling temporary tattoos of your birthmark as well?”
He grins. “And to think I used to hate it. That’s why I always wore a shirt when we went swimming at the creek when I was a kid.”
I can’t imagine why he’d hate it. Having spent too much time on the internet just now, I’m certain I’m not the only person who’d like to trace it with my tongue.
“She’s sold over a hundred of them.” I narrow my eyes. “I hope you poured yourself some wine too.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “What do you think I’ve been doing while you’ve been doomscrolling?”
I glance over at the stove, where something is simmering fragrantly.
A half-empty glass of wine sits beside it.
The scene is so cozy it makes me feel like I swallowed a balled sock, because he doesn’t belong here, not really, and he can’t stay.
Isn’t all of this proof he can’t stay? “What does it feel like, having all of these strangers know your name?”
He sits in the chair beside me, our knees touching, and again I have that feeling of stolen intimacy.
“It’s…uncomfortable. And humbling.” He hesitates.
I sip the wine, make a hmm of pleasure, and hand the glass to him. “So you don’t have to get up.”
He smiles at me and takes a sip before handing it back, our fingers brushing.
“This is crazy,” he says, running his fingers through his unruly hair. “I’m just a normal guy.”
I have to smile at that. “It seems like you’re the only one who thinks so.”
“You think so,” he says, and there’s a note of begging etched in his words.
“You’re not normal, Giovanni,” I say, shaking my head. “There’s something exceptional about you, and they all want a piece of it. Even Helen. You know, I think she really missed her calling. She should have been a talent scout.”
“I’m not exceptional,” he says as if I’ve offended him. “Or special. They only want the Shirtless Chef. It’s a persona.”
I take his hand without thinking, needing to make sure he stays put for this.
“Giovanni, he is you. You’re the same person, or at least he’s a part of you.”
He’s shaking his head before I’m even finished.
“It’s true,” I insist. “The reason people like your videos…it’s not because of your abs, though they truly are a work of art—”
He opens his mouth to say something, but I press a finger to his full lips. He sucks it into his mouth, running his tongue around it.
I laugh and pull it back, even though molten heat is curling in my core. “You’re not going to distract me. I have something to say.”
A smile unfurls on his face. “I know better than to get in the way of Bianca Murphy when she has something to say.”
“Good. They want you. I’ve seen you at the pumpkin patch and today with all the Shirties—”
“That’s an awful name.”
“Truly the worst. But you’re not distracting me. They love you because you listened to them. Because you can make any trite, old thing into a story. Because you’re magnetic.”
Now, he’s grinning outright. “You think I’m magnetic.”
“I do, unfortunately, because you already know you’re handsome and charming. Now you’re going to have an ego the size of Maine.”
“I’m in North Carolina, which is considerably larger, so it would only be sensible for my ego to expand.”
I wrap a hand around his bicep. “So I don’t understand why you’re so afraid to embrace all of this.”
Right away, I know that I chose the wrong word. I have two brothers, so I truly should have known better. No man wants to believe he’s capable of fear.
Giovanni’s eyebrows wing up. “You think I’m a coward.”
“I never said that. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”
“You do, though.” He nods toward my computer.
“I know that’s what all of them think, too, and they’re right.
You all are.” He gets to his feet and paces a few steps before stopping in front of me, his expression agonized.
“Look, Bianca, I haven’t told anyone else, but I’ve tried making videos since this happened.
I’ve tried at least a dozen times. I can’t do it anymore. ”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely baffled.
“I don’t know. It felt stupid, running around with my shirt off, acting like it was still some secret when everyone already knew.
It doesn’t feel natural. There’s no magic.
So I can’t go on any shows or talk to any talent agents if I don’t know whether I can even do it anymore.
It would be even more of an embarrassment. ”
“Will you let me help you?”
“Help me do what? Stand frozen in front of the camera like I couldn’t prepare a Pop-Tart to save my life?”
“Maybe you’re going about it the wrong way,” I say, eager, touching his arm again. “We need to try coming at it from a different angle.”
He’s watching me with an intense gaze, as if I might be his salvation, and I want so badly to help guide him to the solution that will take away his pain. It’s different from the need I have to help sick and grieving people. This is personal. I want to help him because I care about him.
An acrid edge creeps into the delicious aroma suffusing the kitchen, and Giovanni swears and runs to the stove, then yanks the pan off the heat before all but tossing it onto the next burner.
He’s angry.
He’s in pain.
And I want so badly to wrap my arms around him and squeeze until some of my strength pours into him. My heart wants to open itself to him. It’s such a strong desire that I’m horrified by it.
Because it’s the kind of desire that could ruin a woman.
“I can’t even make you dinner without fucking it up,” he says, burying his face in his hands.
Then it doesn’t matter that I’m an emotional coward and my inclination is to keep this man at a distance. I need to go to him.