Page 81 of Falling for Mr. October

I hold her closer, my voice ragged as I speak into her hair. “He trusted me to take care of her, not my brother Enzo, who’s better at everything. Not even Nico or Aria. Me. That means something, and I’d never let him down. Never. I’d be worse than a coward if I did. I’d be a man without honor.”

“Of course you wouldn’t do that.” She snuggles in closer, giving her comfort to me, and I can tell she’s trying to soak up some of my grief. “He’d be so proud of the man you’ve become.”

I’m still not sure I believe that, but her words fill my heart.

She pulls back and kisses me softly, sweetly, and my heart fucking aches. I meant what I said: I can’t promise anyone anything right now. My decisions are not fully mine to make, and they haven’t been for years. I made a promise to a dying man—a man I loved with all my soul—and I will keep it. I’m my grandmother’s caretaker, and that means I need to go where she goes.

But God help me, I will do something good for Bianca while I’m here. I’ll do everything I can.

“All right,” I say, trying to cast the memory away. “You’ve made me feel like a real chump about being afraid of the retirement home, so I’m going to go with you.”

I can tell Bianca’s struggling with whether or not she should try to continue our conversation, but she puts on a big smile for me. “You’re really coming?”

“I tell you what. I’ll even talk to a lady about an apple pie.”

And what do you know…

My fake girlfriend kisses me again.

Bianca pauses at the front door of The Rotten Apple—a big, sprawling red brick building with worn spots on the paint, as if it really is a misshapen, rotten fruit. It’s a bit blustery today, the limbs of the trees dancing, showing off their changing colors. Bianca says we’re a week off from the peak of what they call the “big show.” The leaves are dabbled with red and gold and orange, but right now, there’s still green mixed in.

She’s not staring off at the leaves, though. She’s studying me with a worried expression. “You should know something…”

“Now she tells me.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. I want to kiss it, and since the receptionist at the front desk is watching us through the glass front door, I lean in and do it.

“For our little show,” I whisper. “Now, what is it I should know?”

“You’re very popular in here.”

“Is Luanne the president of my fan club?”

“Well, she’s a founding member. I’d say Helen is the president. And there are a few other members.”

She opens the front door, and I reach above her head to hold it for her. When she gives me a pointed look, I stare back in feigned innocence. “You really think the folks here won’t expect me to be a gentleman?”

She must realize I have a point, because she walks through the door.

As I follow her into the heavily air-conditioned interior, which smells strongly of antiseptic and lemon, but thankfully not pee, Bianca adds, “They have a viewing group going of all of your videos. I think they’ve been watching them for three or four hours a day.”

“Try five, Bianca,” says the woman behind the desk, who’s watching us with lively blue eyes. “They didn’t call you in, did they? You should be enjoying your day off. You worked five shifts in a row this week.”

I give Bianca a sidelong glance and then wrap my arm around her waist. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her, but she wanted to introduce me to everyone at her place of employment, and of course, I couldn’t say no. We also brought over some s’mores for everyone to try.”

I release Bianca and approach the heavy wooden reception desk, holding out my hand. “I’m Bianca’s boyfriend, Giovanni.”

“Why, as I live and breathe.” Ignoring my hand, she gets up from her perch, circles the desk, and throws her arms around me in a tight squeeze that smells of floral perfume. Her silver curls tickle my face. “Of course I know who you are, honey. You’d better be careful if you’re going into the rec room. They might mob you, and God knows someone will break a hip.”

“Sounds like a good time,” I joke as she pulls away.

She pats my cheeks with both hands. “Goodness, aren’t you handsome.” She taps the name tag resting on one of her large breasts. “I’m Judy. Will you sign our guest book, dear? You need to anyway, and we’ll treasure it always.”

I sign the book waiting on her desk, and she screws up her forehead, reading my signature, and peers up at me. “Can you sign it as the Shirtless Chef?”

“I don’t know if I’m allowed to do that while I’m wearing a shirt,” I quip, feeling a squeeze of discomfort.

I’m not him, but he’s me.