Page 36 of Falling for Mr. October

“She’s not all alone.”

He hesitates, his gaze lingering on my face. “No, I suppose she has you.”

Warmth fills my chest, because he says that like it’s not such a bad thing. “And Emily. Emily has basically adopted her. Besides, the retirement home’s not bad.”

“You call it The Rotten Apple.”

I smile ruefully. “It’s not so great either, but at least she’s around lots of folks who care about her. She has people checking in with her. People her own age who appreciate her for who she is now and don’t just notice how much she’s changed.”

He looks called out for a full ten seconds, but then his expression shifts to teasing. “Does the place smell like pee, though? I’ve heard all retirement homes smell like pee.”

No point in lying. “Sometimes. Sometimes it smells a lot worse. But I do everything in my power to make sure everyone’s just as happy as they can be.”

He watches me with interest for a long moment, and I swipe hair behind my ear, suddenly self-conscious. I hadn’t meant to get on my soapbox.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“Never be sorry for trying to make the world a better place.” His gaze is more intense now, and I can feel it dancing across my skin. “I admire you, Bianca.”

I probably look like a catfish tugged out of the creek, but thankfully he’s too preoccupied opening the door to notice. He holds it, nodding for me to precede him.

“I can hold the door for myself,” I object.

“My nonna would crucify me if I didn’t.”

He’s not wrong, so I step inside, then grab a couple of menus from the stand near the door—topped with a sign that says, Y’all seat yourselves—and lead the way to the back.

The diner’s not too full, just a few scattered people digging into pie and pancakes.

Within thirty seconds of our butts hitting the seats, a familiar server in one of the blue Clean Plate Club vintage dresses approaches our booth. Maureen is middle-aged, with salty brown hair and big blue eyes that light up the second she notices Giovanni’s Smut Slut hat.

“Me too, honey, me too. What’s your favorite book?”

I’m sure he’s going to blow her off, or maybe throw the hat into the nearest trash can, but instead he looks at her name tag and says, “Maureen, I could sooner choose a favorite type of pie. What’s your favorite book?”

And, no shit, Giovanni Cafiero spends the next five minutes talking to her about spicy romance—responding to her with specific examples—while I once again gape at him.

After several minutes, she pats him on the shoulder, and says, “Dear me, I haven’t even asked you what you’d like to order.”

“We’ll have some coffee and two slices of the apple pie, à la mode,” I say. “I’m going to show him what a real apple pie is.”

He makes a humph sound.

As soon as she walks away, I make a big show of scrutinizing the side of his head. “Do you have some kind of earpiece feeding you information?”

He grins at me. “My little sister used to hide romance books all over the house. Nonna Francesca found a couple and started talking to my dad about sending Aria to Catholic school, so I covered for her ass and said the books were mine. Nonna gave me this long look and told me, ‘If these are yours, Giovanni, you’ll sit here and read one until dinner.’ It was only two o’clock. I wasn’t about to admit I’d been lying, so I did exactly as she asked, and you know what? I finished that sucker. I read the other one too, and my sister and I started a two-person book club.”

My heart swells, because yeah, that’s seriously adorable. “Should we get her a ‘Smut Slut’ hat too?”

“Nah. Let’s get them for the nonnas.”

We both laugh at this mental image, and we’re still laughing when Maureen returns with the pie and coffee. She beams at us as she serves the food.

Giovanni picks up his spoon, but I’m already shaking my head.

“Wait. I’m going to need a photo of the great Shirtless Chef realizing he’s been outdone by a mom-and-pop diner.”

He cocks his head. “It sounds a lot like you’re throwing down a challenge, Bianca.”