Page 12 of Falling for Mr. October

My pulse starts hammering, and a cold sweat forms at the back of my neck. “You do?”

CHAPTER FOUR

BIANCA

Giovanni Cafiero looks terrified.

Good. It’s about time he takes someone’s questions seriously.

“Yeah,” Theo says, skewering him with one of his legendary glares. “Miles isn’t ready to help run the farm, and he figured he could buy some time by manipulating Nonna Rose into asking one of his friends to come in his place.”

My chest tightens as my gaze darts back to Giovanni. To my shock, he starts laughing.

“Something funny?” Theo asks tightly. My brother isn’t used to people laughing at him. Or with him, for that matter. Up until recently, he spent most of his time with Uncle Ted, who was a good, steady man with an absolutely nonexistent sense of humor.

“I’m not laughing at you,” Giovanni insists, still laughing, his hand held out beseechingly.

“Answer the question,” I insist.

“Look,” Giovanni says, running a hand back through his hair. “Yes, Miles is the one who suggested the possibility, but⁠—”

I knock a chair down in my haste to leave the room.

My sister texts.

I don’t answer.

Isabella must feel really desperate to get the scoop, because she escalates to calling. I still don’t answer.

I’m not surprised when a knock lands on my door within the hour. That’s what it’s like in Apple Ridge, especially on the family farm—you want to be alone, and suddenly several people are gathered in your room, guilt-tripping you into talking when all you want to do is steal some silence.

“I’m not in here,” I shout.

“It would have been more convincing if you hadn’t answered,” replies a low male voice.

So, not Isabella.

Not my brother, either.

It’s Giovanni’s voice, playful even when he’s serious.

I consider leaving him out there to sweat, but I still want information. So I get up, feeling like I’m walking through one of the hideous gelatin desserts the cooks at The Rotten Apple always serve, and open the door.

Giovanni’s standing just beyond it, his light-brown eyes contrite.

“Theo didn’t kill you?” I ask.

“You’re the one who came the closest today.” He hesitates, running his fingers over the doorjamb. “I’m sorry, Bianca. Miles didn’t send me here, the way Theo was saying, but he came to see me last weekend, and he did suggest it.”

“He’s not coming home.” The words come out flatly, matter-of-fact, almost like I don’t want to punch a pillow.

Giovanni shakes his head. “I really think he is. There’s something he has to do before coming home, something he begged me not to talk about, but he’ll be here before Christmas. He was adamant about that.”

“Convenient,” I say harshly, not wanting Giovanni to sense the hurt radiating through my chest. Though I guess the fact that I ran from the living room like a toddler throwing a tantrum may have clued him in. “I suppose that’s why he couldn’t warn us.” I pause before adding, “I know you’re running away from something too, only in the other direction.”

It’s not a question. He is.

He shifts and grips the top of the doorframe with one hand, showing off that bicep again as he leans to one side. My gaze traces it, taking in the small tattoo on his upper arm—a lobster.