Page 88 of Falling for Mr. October

He lifts a hand to my face, cupping it. “You take care of everyone.”

“So let me have a go at you. I’ll feel unfulfilled if you don’t allow it.”

“I want to kiss you,” he says, his voice gravelly, his hand still cradling my jaw as if my face is a precious thing to be worshipped.

“So do it.”

He lowers his forehead to mine, his eyes staring into my own, and a feeling I’ve never experienced courses through me—a connection so deep it feels like it has no end.

“Giovanni,” I whisper. His name is still on my lips when he finally lowers his mouth to mine, swallowing the rest of the word.

Maybe it will help him remember that he’s someone of importance, of substance, all on his own. I hope so.

His mouth glides over mine softly but with confidence, and I sigh into him, letting my own worries be consumed by him. His hand is still on my chin, and his other hand sweeps around to my back, pressing me closer.

He holds me to him, kissing me gently, until I step back.

“I mean to make you dinner.”

He smiles at me, a wistful smile. “I know you will. No one gets between you and what you want.”

“It could be like that for you too,” I tell him, my hand finding his chest again as if it’s some kind of homing beacon. “Maybe you should stop being so stubborn and read that book Emily gave you. Theresa might go on and on about being a psychic, but the only real psychic is Emily with her book recommendations.”

“All right,” he says with a slow, almost lazy smile. “You know, I like the way you call me out. You’ve always been like that. Ever since I was a dumbass kid. I’ll never forget the verbal lashing you gave me after Miles broke his arm.”

“You deserved it,” I say, with a ghost of a smile. “My grandfather told you not to try hiking up that ridge. But Miles didn’t need any help being a dumbass.”

“He’s grown up a lot,” Giovanni says softly.

“We’ll see.” I press my fingers into him, loving the firm, solid feel of him. “I’m going to cook for you now. And maybe we can talk about what comes next for you after you read that book.”

“Okay, boss.”

I lift a finger. “You may be making fun of me, but I like it, so you’d better be careful.”

He answers with a slow, appreciative smile. “Can I watch you cook, boss?” he asks, his voice full of liquid heat.

I grin at him. “You’ll want to step in. I’m a bad cook.”

“No, I just want to watch you. Honest to God.”

He says it so sweetly, so genuinely, that I feel something frozen inside of me melting. “All right.”

I throw away the burnt chicken piccata, feeling a pang of loss—it really did smell good—and leave the pan to soak in the sink.

Giovanni tries to help with the dishes, but when I remind him he’s only here to play the observer, he hangs back. His gaze is pinned to me as I crack the eggs into the bowl and whisk in some of the cream he puts in his coffee, then add some herbs and salt and pepper.

“I like watching you work,” he says as I add butter to the frying pan. “You’re so beautiful.”

I laugh as I pour the eggs in, but I feel beautiful. I really do, even though I’m only in my orchard shirt, and my hair is thrown back into a messy bun.

“Are you going to tell me where I’m going wrong?” I ask.

“I’m just appreciating the view,” he says.

“You could sit and appreciate the view,” I point out, thinking he’s got to be tired after all that fuss this afternoon. I know he was up at the crack of dawn to make those graham crackers.

“I like the view from up here.”