Page 122 of Falling for Mr. October

“Please, Bianca,” I say. “I’m begging you. For the love of God, after you finish, let’s take your apple pie upstairs so I can eat your pussy while you enjoy it. My life will be incomplete if you deny me.”

Her eyes sparkle as she says, “You know, I think I’m really going to miss you when you leave.”

The words cut into my chest, but I ignore the pain and cut the sandwich for her.

I lift it to her lips.

She rolls her eyes but takes a bite, humming under her breath as she chews. “God, that’s so good. How is that so good?”

“Because I made it,” I tease.

She laughs and takes another bite.

I’m tempted to tell her what I’ve been thinking about. How I want to form an impossible solution for us. But she’s tired from a long day, and I know it’s not the time.

She pokes a finger at me, and for a second I think she can read my mind, but I realize she’s pointing behind me at the stove.

“Now, you’d better get that out,” she says. “I’m suddenly very hungry for dessert.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

BIANCA

On Saturday, I’m pleased to see Rhett is wearing the douchiest set of track clothes to have ever disgraced this planet. They’re pumpkin-colored with white racing stripes, as if he’s going to sprint through the Gallaghers’ famous twenty-acre corn maze.

Maybe he will. He’s told everyone the designer kept the solution a secret from everyone, each and every Gallagher included, so it’ll be an “even playing field.” Of course, he’s a lying sack of shit.

It is wild to me that I almost married that man. If not for Kitty’s intervention, I would have. I never would have reconnected with Giovanni.

Rhett is currently standing in front of the opening of the maze, which helpfully has a huge ENTER HERE sign staked next to it, the red letters dripping, either because he wanted them to look like blood, or he got lazy. He’s talking animatedly to Christopher, who has been suckered into writing a whole series about both Giovanni and Apple Ridge’s festivals.

Someone at the main office of The Asheville Gazette must really dislike the guy or have an aversion to mustaches.

“We could have breezed through that maze,” I say to Giovanni in an undertone. “Not a worry in the world.”

“It was a poor choice to turn Whit down,” Emily says. “A very poor, very sweet choice.”

I cup Giovanni’s cheek and then rearrange his Mr. October crown, which is barely sticking together at this point. “Yes, Chef. She has a point.”

He grins at me, and I feel a flutter of nerves. I seriously don’t care about solving the maze, so it takes me a moment to figure out what’s going on with me.

It’s all the Halloween décor, I realize with a lurching sensation.

It’s a reminder that our month is almost at an end.

The thought fills me with raw panic, but I tamp it down, not wanting to ruin the afternoon. If he’s leaving in another week, each moment together is important.

Emily pokes me. “You’re moping again.”

“Because Giovanni robbed us of certain victory,” I fib.

He kisses the top of my head. “Certain victory today, yes, but I’m going to fight for apple pie ascendancy. Consider it in the bag.”

Giovanni has already told me about his plan for next week. On top of all the superfame he’s courting, he’s decided to charm each member of the judging panel for the apple pie bake-off. We know who they are thanks to Whit, who brought the information over on Friday on an old bicycle, tucked inside a sealed envelope addressed to “Mr. Shirtless Chef Giovanni.”

It was all very cloak-and-dagger until Giovanni offered to let him taste-test the latest versions of the apple pie. He and Luanne decided they could improve upon perfection, so they’ve been making an unreal amount of pies.

Whit, the nonnas, and I have all voted on the four front-runners, using a scale from zero to ten. I nearly peed myself laughing because Nonna Francesca is a viciously low scorer.