Page 65 of Falling for Mr. October

My phone buzzes several times in my pocket. It’s my personal phone, and the messages are from Emily.

Just saw the update to the noticeboard.

They moved S’mores to next Saturday, after the scarecrow competition. They’re calling it the “First Fall Festival.” Every business in town can rent out tables. Mr. Campbell already said I can get one for us.

Get this, though, the s’mores making is a competition now, and the prize is a dinner made by the Shirtless Chef.

Did Giovanni seriously agree to that?

Of course he didn’t.

Fucking Rhett.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

BIANCA

“So, what you’re telling me is that I pissed off Mr. Mayor,” Giovanni says as he flings a dishcloth over his shoulder.

My gaze hungrily follows the motion before snapping back to his face. He shaved this morning, and it turns out having a clean-shaven face with a heavy five-o’clock shadow suits him as much as his almost-there beard did.

“Yes,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush.

He stirs the pan of butternut squash risotto in front of him. The whole kitchen smells like autumn—warm squash, nutmeg, and a twist of lemon.

The nonnas would normally be crowded in here with him, overseeing his process, but they’re enjoying a glass of wine in the sunroom and playing poker with Nonna Francesca’s lucky deck. Although my nonna claims she’s completely aware that the relationship between Giovanni and me is fake, I suspect that their disappearing act is their way of “letting the magic happen.”

Giovanni starts humming as he continues to stir the risotto, completely unbothered by the thought of Rhett having it out for him.

“You didn’t agree to make dinner for the winner,” I say, annoyed. “We can’t let Rhett get away with this.”

He shrugs and lifts the spoon for a taste. “I don’t really care.”

“You don’t care that he’s manipulating you? He already maneuvered you into talking to the press.”

Apparently, It’s Not Gossip magazine is interested in doing a feature on Giovanni, and he’s agreed. The interview is going to take place next Sunday.

He gives me an arch look, his lips creeping up slightly in a show of humor. “What can I say? Maybe I’m getting used to it.”

His words send a surge of guilt through me. I know exactly what he means, and he has every right to feel that way. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll figure out how to deal with Rhett. This is my fuckup.”

I turn to walk away, but he reaches for me, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. When I turn toward him, he’s only inches away, smelling of forest and lemon and our apple barn.

“I’m the one who challenged him,” he says, “so you can say it’s our fuckup.” There’s an edge of wildness in his smile. Like maybe he still wants to kiss me, despite everything.

“But it’s not an issue,” he continues. “He failed to set a menu, so if someone else wins, I can make them a grilled cheese sandwich or a peanut butter and jelly. But that’s not going to happen. We’re going to win, naturally, so I’ll only be making dinner for you.”

Suddenly, I feel dangerously close to tears. “And you wouldn’t mind making dinner for me?”

He glances back at the stove. “Clearly not. I’ve seen what you eat when you don’t have anyone looking after you.”

“My nonna⁠—”

“Deserves to have someone cook for her, just like mine does. I hope when I’m in my eighties I’ll have at least one grandchild who enjoys cooking for me.”

I swallow, taken aback by the thought of Giovanni with children. Grandchildren. I can imagine him cooking with them, teaching them the classic recipes his family taught him. They’d all love him, of course.

It’s natural to love someone like Giovanni, who’s easy and sweet and fun.