Page 96 of Falling for Mr. October

He shakes his head slightly, but his mouth is quirking into a smile. “You claim you don’t like pancakes⁠—”

“I just said that to torment you. Everyone likes pancakes.”

“Well, too bad,” he says, tapping me on the nose. “Now you’re stuck with waffles. I made them with cinnamon apple compote. I’m practicing the seasoning of the apples, but I’ll need to go in to talk to Luanne before we start workshopping the recipe. I was thinking of stopping by tomorrow.”

“You’re going to come to The Rotten Apple while I’m working?” I ask, a little alarmed by the thought, probably because the last time he was there, I got so distracted I caused a literal fire.

“If you don’t mind.” He says it so humbly that I’d feel like a monster to deny him.

“Of course not.”

He claps his hands. “Good. People will probably have some questions for us at the festival this afternoon. Already someone from the local paper came by the house this morning, and Nonna had to send them away.”

And here I’d let myself hope we’d be spared since we decided to keep the pumpkin patch closed today. Most people will be at the fall festival this afternoon, and Evergreens & Apples will have a stand there instead.

Francesca shakes her head mournfully. “Young people have no respect anymore. I had to shake my spoon at the boy.”

“They came this early?” I ask, feeling a little heartbroken. Anyone who shows up at our house is trespassing, so it’s not like we’ll be bombarded with people, but I don’t like the thought of anyone bursting into our little bubble. Home is supposed to be safe.

“They won’t be coming back anytime soon,” Giovanni says, giving his grandmother a fond look.

“Maybe they will,” I groan. “They think I tried to burn down the nursing home. They’re probably trying to convince the sheriff to throw me in prison.”

My nonna sniffs. “I’d like to see him try. It took that boy almost two years to learn how to walk.”

That’s how it is around here. The sheriff is a middle-aged man, but everyone who grew up in Apple Ridge knows people around here like to remind you of what you were like at two—even after you turn forty.

“I gave Rhett a reason to fire me,” I groan. “He might still do it.”

Giovanni snorts. “He won’t. Because we’ve given him the one thing he cares about—more people than ever will be at his little festival. But if there’s any press there, I’m going to set the record straight, cara mia,” he says gently, running his finger over the back of my hand. “No need to wait until the interview tomorrow. Will you help me?”

I bite my lip, hesitating. But here’s the thing that really frightens me: I trust him. I one hundred percent, unequivocally believe he will do the right thing by me, my family, and this town that I reluctantly love.

I nod, and the next thing I know, Nonna Francesca is all but shoving me into a chair at the kitchen table. “You eat. You’re much too thin. All that running around⁠—”

“Causing fires,” Giovanni interjects with a grin as he retrieves a plate from the cabinet and piles it high with waffles and apple compote. It smells delicious, and suddenly I’m starving.

TEXT CONVERSATION WITH EMILY

Can you ask Giovanni to wear the hat to the fall festival? I’m going to sell them at the Little Apple Books table.

Of course he’ll be wearing it.

In fact, if I wanted to take it away from him, I’d have to pry it from his cold, dead hands.

Let’s not stoop to murder.

I have a lot to tell you.

Hopefully it’s that you finally decided to enjoy yourself and not that I need to buy a shovel.

The nonnas leave early with Theo to set up a booth for Evergreens & Apples, and by the time Giovanni drives us downtown, the festival is jam-packed with cars and people on foot. Several people peer into the windows of the Range Rover and wave at us before turning to whisper to their companions. They’re probably gossiping about the fire.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” I say with a sigh as Giovanni steers the Range Rover toward the second overflow lot.

My retired fifth-grade teacher, Mr. O’Connor, jogs up from a folding chair arranged next to the entrance to the lot—an empty field that was supposed to be developed into a new and desperately needed grocery store but never was—and holds up a hand in the universal stop signal. Once Giovanni stops, Mr. O’Connor rolls his fisted hand in a circle.

Giovanni stares at him in disbelief. “Why is this man pretending to eat spaghetti? Is he mocking me?”