Page 30 of Falling for Mr. October

“Thanks,” he says with a tight nod. “We’ll see.”

But he doesn’t mean it. This isn’t the eager Giovanni from this morning, who would have made me a whole buffet breakfast if I’d asked. He’s closed-off, cautious. I’ve done that.

“I know a no when I hear one,” I say, mostly to see how he responds.

His mouth forms a tight smile. “Good, because I don’t like telling people no.”

“You should try it more often.” I take a sip of my wine. “It’s empowering.”

“Okay, I’ll give it a try.” His expression hardens, his jaw turning as hard as granite. “No, Bianca, I don’t want to be paraded around town like a farm mascot so people will buy more pumpkins. I don’t even like pumpkins.” He gives a short, dry laugh. “You know what? That did feel pretty good. You can take the eggplant parmigiana out when it’s ready. I set a timer.”

He walks away without glancing back at me, even when I call his name. I’m desperate enough to call out, “John,” hoping he’ll laugh. But he doesn’t react at all.

I feel like a complete and total asshole, even though he’s wrong about why I invited him to hang out.

Part of the reason I feel so guilty?

Eggplant parmigiana is my favorite Italian dish and has been since I was a child.

CHAPTER NINE

GIOVANNI

THE CAFIERO FAMILY CHAT

Enzo: Dammit, Giovanni. You had one job. [LINK]

Aria: To have the best damn abs in the whole family?

I can hear the door creaking open downstairs, which suggests it needs to be oiled and also that Theo and the nonnas have returned. No doubt they’re already in foul moods that will get worse the second Bianca tells them about Eva St. Claire.

I should go down there.

But I’m feeling too fucked up. I don’t know what to do with myself, whether I want to go or stay. Even though I’m annoyed with Bianca, I do want to help. I promised Miles I would, and my word matters to me. Besides, this farm is important to me too.

I hear a few raised voices, one of them Bianca’s, but it doesn’t necessarily sound like everyone’s arguing—they’re just being themselves. So I ignore the loud chatter and click the Instagram link Enzo sent, already knowing what I’ll find: a photo of Eva St. Claire with her arm draped around me.

I look like a deer caught in the headlights.

The caption beneath the photo reads:

I FOUND The Shirtless Chef! Giovanni Cafiero is working at a rinky-dink farm in Apple Ridge, North Carolina. I know that sounds impossible, but IT’S HIM. It’s confirmed, even though he was wearing a name tag that said John. I don’t know if he lost his memory or what, but the woman who owns this place is straight-up nuts, and he seems to be under her thumb. She tried to steal my phone to erase the evidence, but Giovanni stopped her. #liberateGiovanni. #savetheShirtlessChef

I choke on a laugh, positive Bianca will like that. She was quite something earlier, defending me and my chest.

But the laughter dries up pretty quickly when I realize Eva St. Claire isn’t just a strange lady who’s trigger-happy with her phone camera. She’s a lifestyle coach with nearly five hundred thousand followers. My mood sours more when I see there are already thousands of comments. I start reading through them, clenching my jaw.

Blink twice if you’re being held against your will, Giovanni.

Um. I’m going to Apple Ridge. TOMORROW.

Road trip, anyone?! [Jeep emoji]

I bury my head in my hands, feeling half panicked. It won’t be long until everyone sees it.

It’s hard to believe all of this started to innocently, driven by my wish to save my family business and my need to prove myself after Janine burned me.

I came up with the idea for the Shirtless Chef after watching a bunch of YouTube videos during a slow period. One guy had a channel called Shitty Cooking, where he prepared so-so meals from canned and frozen food. And I’ll be damned, the man had almost a million followers. Plenty of sponsors, too.