Page 15 of Falling for Mr. October

“Sleep tight,” he says, his eyes twinkling, and I know I won’t. It’ll be his fault too. Because I’ll be thinking about Giovanni Cafiero leaning into my doorway, talking about pie. I’ll be squirming, enough that I might have to take out the toy I keep hidden in my attached bathroom.

But I won’t knock on his door.

I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, and I’m one hundred percent certain I couldn’t even pick him up.

Like he said, he works out.

CHAPTER FIVE

GIOVANNI

CAFIERO FAMILY CHAT

Enzo: How’s Nonna?

Me: I’m doing great, Enzo. Thank you.

Nico: Hidden Italy was packed all day, and a woman came in yesterday and asked me to sign her tits.

Me: Is that a complaint?

Nico: More of an observation. They were nice tits, but it was obvious she thought I was you.

Enzo: Was she drunk? Giovanni’s nose is twice as big as yours.

Giovanni: Now, I know you’re still pissed at me. Only an angry man would lie like that.

Aria: Did you sign them?

Aria: It would have been rude to turn her down.

It’s day eleven or maybe twelve of my life on the farm, and so far no one other than the Murphys has noticed me. And none of the Apple Ridge Murphys know about my unintentional, temporary fame.

I’ve spent most of my time with Theo, who has stoically accepted my presence. We work in the fields together, and his attitude toward me has thawed enough that he lets me use his home gym. The rest of my time has been devoted to cooking at the farmhouse with Nonna Francesca and Nonna Rose. Those are the best moments: listening to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin with the nonnas while we make too much food and they tell me stories plucked from their combined one hundred and sixty or so years of existence.

Theo and Bianca eat with us most nights, although sometimes Bianca comes home too late, and I set aside a plate for her. Isabella, their little sister, has joined us a couple of times too. She’s Aria’s age, and she runs a B&B here in town—the same B&B the Murphys’ mother used to run before moving.

It really is good for Nonna here. She’s softer than usual, but also sharper, like she’s forming present-day memories that might stick instead of drifting away like soap bubbles.

Back home, I could feel her slipping away. All of us kids could. But now, she’s coming back, like this farm is working a kind of reverse-aging magic.

Bianca has barely spent any time at the house. She leaves early in the morning and returns late in the afternoon or evening. Theo told me her usual shifts run from nine to three, which leaves several mysterious hours between the end of her shifts and her usual return to the farmhouse.

She had a couple of days off in the middle of my stay, but she spent all of the first day reading up in her room. It must have been some book, because when I asked if she wanted to pick apples and make a pie, she reminded me she never wanted to try my pie and turned the page.

I made a pie anyway, using the farm’s fresh apples. Frankly, I wanted to see if she’d break.

When I brought the pie out after dinner, everyone took a slice—except for her.

Her nonna frowned at her. “Bianca, you love apple pie.”

“I don’t have much of a sweet tooth tonight,” she said archly, her gaze fixed on me.

She had the imprint of a pillow on her face, probably from all that reading she’d been doing, and her bun was crooked. But maybe my self-imposed exile from civilization had reengineered my brain, because I couldn’t pull my eyes away from her.

I craved her approval.

“You’ll insult Giovanni if you don’t try his pie,” her nonna insisted.