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“Do you ever stop with the innuendos?” I ask.

“They’re good for cooking.” He holds up his fingers and wiggles them. “Cook–ing.”

In response, I smash the paper number against his stomach. To which he has the nerve to chuckle, making his abs flex beneath my hand. I try not to react, but inside, I’m screaming. He knew exactly what he was suggesting.

Fighting the urge to stab him with a safety pin, I hold my breath when I catch a whiff of his spicy coconut scent and pin the final corner of the paper to his T-shirt. When I’m done, I step back two paces, turn my head aside, and inhale fresh Gio-free air. When I recover, I glare at him with my best I’m super unimpressed with your hard abs expression.

“I need one more favor.” Gio steps back into my space and holds up his phone. “Would you mind?”

I roll my eyes so hard, they may fall out of my head.

“Please?” he asks with a pleading expression.

“I’m sure your dumb fan club will love it.” I swipe his phone like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. But secretly, I’m thrilled because I’ll enjoy watching it too.

I tap the phone’s screen, expecting to find a shirtless gym-bro screensaver. Instead, it’s a photo of him engulfing Tina in a hug. She’s wearing a crown of green leaves, and he’s kissing her forehead.

Come on!

“What’s your passcode,” I ask.

“Salami.”

“Of course it is.” I shake my head as an emcee asks contestants to meet behind the stage.

“Make me look good, Sparkles.” Gio shoots me finger guns.

“You’re asking for miracles,” I say, but the dig only wins me another one of his heart-stopping smiles before he jogs through the crowd.

He’s infuriating.

Because of said charm, I can’t help when I pirouette into my seat like a drunk fool. I’m trying to figure out where we transitioned into whatever this is. It freaks me out.

So much so that I need to get back on track and prank him. It’s the only way to fight the unchaste feelings. I blame his videos, his biceps, and the way he smiles so brightly, I need sunglasses to ogle him.

Onstage, the emcee welcomes the crowd, and everyone cheers. Some audience members are dressed in pineapple costumes such as pineapple queens, pineapples driving grocery carts, and pineapples painted in rainbow colors.

My attention returns to the stage when the emcee announces each contestant. One by one, they appear. But when Gio steps out, the crowd goes insane, probably because they recognize him, but mostly because he’s shirtless and built like a god. I’m not even mad about the missing paper number.

The contestants line up behind a long table. Each has half a pineapple sitting on the table in front of them. Behind them, a large screen shows the table from a bird’s eye view. A roving cameraman circles the group, and the onscreen image changes to a new view.

After the emcee explains the rules, the contestants clasp their hands behind their backs and lean over their pineapples. Six-foot-high numbers count down on the digital screen behind them.

“Five, four, three, two . . .” The crowd counts down, and when they reach the number one, an air gun blares, beginning the contest.

Audience members stand for a better view. Homemade signs wave. Noisemakers screech. I try to catch the details on film before I settle the camera on Gio, but when I do?

I’ve never thought about what a fruit-eating contest looks like. Heck, I never even knew such a thing existed, but I should have. There is chaos everywhere, but I can only focus on Gio. Shirtless, achingly perfect Gio.

With his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders and biceps flex and pop as he leans in and sensually licks the pineapple with his tongue. His very long and very agile tongue. I exhale a shaky breath and grip his phone tighter as its camera records.

Gio lifts his gaze to mine and flashes me a naughty grin, right before he begins eating the yellow fruit. And by eating, I mean he smashes his face into the pineapple meat and assaults it with such raw and animalistic rage, it is somehow the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed. He’s gnawing and chowing down so intensely that I forget to breathe.

My panties might as well be a sinking ship, because they’re flooding like I’ve crashed in a Giovanni storm, and my re-virginized ship is going down fast. My little woman in a lifeboat is screaming for help. She needs to be savored and saved by his tongue, like right now!

I mumble to myself, perhaps it’s gibberish. I can’t be sure; I’m too busy losing my mind over what I’m witnessing. Experiencing. It’s another preview of what Gio could do to me if I let him.

Gio finishes his oral sprint and lurches upright to signal he’s finished. The buzzer sounds and the crowd cheers wildly.