Page 16 of Falling for Mr. October

“And you’re too thin,” my nonna added. “Much too thin. You should eat two slices. Three.”

Bianca knew better than to deny both of the nonnas, so she served herself a slice, scooped on some of the whipped cream I’d prepared, took a bite, and then shrugged. “It’s not half bad.”

Not half bad?

She clearly knew those words would get under my skin—as if she were insulting my masculinity as well as my pie.

The next day at lunch, Bianca’s nonna told her she should show me around town. This time, I was the one who shook my head. I couldn’t just stroll around town, as if my face weren’t all over certain tucked-away corners of the internet.

“You don’t want to see Apple Ridge?” Nonna Rose asked as if mortally offended.

Fuck.

But Nonna Francesca knew exactly why I couldn’t go on a lookabout, so she piped up, “He’s tired. All this work on the farm. My boys aren’t used to it. They’re soft from too much time in a store. Let him rest.”

“You’re too soft, Giovanni?” Bianca asked with a mischievous glimmer in her eye.

I flexed my arm. “See for yourself.”

She poked it as if it were a sea slug. “Like a deflated soufflé,” she lied, her mouth tipping up. “Your loss. I was going to invite you to my art club. You could have made a painting of your pie.”

She didn’t say mediocre before pie, but I heard it.

Even so, I wanted to go to her art club. I didn’t care if there were fifty members or two, or even if they were interesting or the most boring people on the planet. I was so socially starved, I would have gone to a lecture on finance law or the latest diet craze.

But I knew better than to rise to Bianca’s taunt, so I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll make one anyway.”

And when she went up to her room that night, long after Theo, the nonnas, and I had dinner, I heard her laughing softly to herself.

Because I’d slid a pencil sketch of a dancing pie under her door.

That was four busy, nearly silent days ago, and I can feel myself bursting at the seams.

I start the day like usual, with a hot shower. After I get dressed, I kiss the charm on my necklace and tuck it beneath my shirt. My grandfather gave it to me when I was a boy, and honoring him is part of my daily ritual.

When I leave the bathroom, I glance at Bianca’s doorway, but it’s sealed, like usual.

Her room has an attached bathroom. Miles’s does not, something he used to complain about when we were kids. I used to bunk with him in his room on our visits, while Enzo and Nico would stay with Theo, who had the largest room. Aria shared Isabella’s tiny room, and Bianca, as the eldest girl, had her own space.

I head downstairs, whistling, trying to amp myself up for another day of hauling apples, tagging trees based on the fruits’ level of readiness, and whatever else Theo needs help with today.

I thought it would be boring on the farm, and…

There’s no “and.” It is fucking boring. In fact, if I keep going on like this, it won’t be long before I paint smiley faces on the trees and start having full-on conversations with them.

I love being around people: talking, laughing, flirting, telling stories. It’s what makes me feel alive.

But I tell myself boring is exactly what I need right now, after the clusterfuck that was unleashed in Maine.

When I head down the stairs and into the kitchen, the only person sitting at the old, white-painted table is Bianca. She’s wearing a short-sleeved black dress with a pumpkin-colored button-up sweater.

“You’re here,” I say, beaming at her. It’s too much, probably, but I’m starved for company.

“I live here,” she says, lifting her mug for a sip of coffee. She always takes it black.

After a second, she relents and adds, “It’s one of my days off. Yesterday would have been, but I was covering for someone.”

I pour myself a cup of coffee, then add enough cream to turn it a light caramel brown.