Page 35 of Falling for Mr. October

She loves finding every person she meets the “perfect” book for them. She loves it so much, in fact, that she often takes it upon herself to gift said perfect book to them. Mr. Campbell has plenty to say about that, but since she buys the books using her own money, he can’t stop her. Besides, her mad methods work. She’s made readers out of several people in town, including everyone in her book club at The Rotten Apple.

“All right,” Giovanni agrees with a nod.

Em shifts her gaze to me. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I know what that means: you will be telling me everything tomorrow, or I will hunt you down.

I nod, and she takes off, pulling her hood tighter as she leaves.

Turning in my seat, I smile at Giovanni and adjust his hat. “All right, Smut Slut, are you ready?”

“Is that my new nickname?” he asks, his voice a sexy rumble.

“I think so. I’m going to use it every time you call me Dr. Death.”

His smile should be illegal in at least ten states, maybe all fifty. “You’d better hope I don’t take a liking to it, then.”

He gets out of the car, and I suck in a deep breath and get out too, reminding myself the prettier the man, the more problems he can cause you, and Giovanni Cafiero is very pretty. And once word spreads that he’s here, every unattached woman in town will probably want to throw her panties in the ring. They won’t even need to know he’s the Shirtless Chef. They’ll only care that he’s tall and handsome and new to town.

“Where are we going?” he asks as I lead him across the road to the sidewalk on the other side.

A couple of tourists pass us. The man probably thinks he’s being discreet when he points out Giovanni’s hat to his wife, but he’s as subtle as Luanne is quiet.

Giovanni seems completely unfazed as he waits for my answer.

I clear my throat. “I’m bringing you for dessert. Seems only right since you made me dinner.”

We pass one of the art installations that decorate the small downtown area. All of them are, wait for it, apples. This one’s a huge mosaic piece, complete with a small mosaic worm composed of beads. It’s large enough to sit on, and tourists do sometimes, but no one from Apple Ridge would dare. The artist is notoriously, and rightfully, protective of her work.

“These didn’t used to be here,” Giovanni says, brushing his fingers over it as we pass.

“No,” I agree. “They were part of a town rejuvenation project several years ago. Back when the mayor didn’t suck.”

I can feel him studying me as we move along, ignoring the teenage girls who giggle at the sight of him in his pink hat.

“The rejuvenation didn’t work, though, did it?” he asks, his gaze on me.

I shrug my shoulder, not comfortable with pressuring him more today. If it’s unfair to put the farm’s success on his broad shoulders, it would be downright presumptuous to ask him to save the whole town. “Plenty of people around here don’t want more tourists.”

But we need them anyway.

I lead him off Main Street, and then we walk past Little Apple Books. The inviting windows look out onto the street, showcasing all the work Emily has done to transform Mr. Campbell’s shop. It’s bright and cheerful inside, with an adorable children’s nook in the back, a young adult section with a paper dragon swooping over it, and a whole corner devoted to romance.

Turning to Giovanni with a smile, I say, “That’s where your hat comes from.”

He flashes the storefront the middle finger, making me laugh.

We pass a cute wooden bench, where many people sit and read their purchases from Little Apple Books, and finally I pause in front of The Clean Plate Club. The name is painted onto a blue dinner plate fixed to the edifice. Inside, it has classic diner décor, with red-upholstered booths and a jukebox that famously plays only Patsy Cline.

Giovanni pauses outside, his brow wrinkling. “I remember this place. Miles and I went here a few times.”

I grin at him. “Do you remember Luanne from earlier? You might have met her here. This was her place back then.”

I thought he’d be pleased, or maybe amused, but his expression drops. “That was the lady who used to run the diner?” He rubs his brow, his fingers knocking against the brim of the hat he seems to have forgotten he’s wearing. “I remember her and her husband, that guy with all the polka-dot bow ties. How’d she end up in a home?”

“She chose to be there.” I knock my arm against his lightly. “Her husband passed a while back, and then a couple of years ago she had a stroke and couldn’t live alone anymore. Her son lives in Paris. Paris, France, not the one in Texas. He invited her to live with him, but she couldn’t see her way toward leaving Apple Ridge.”

He looks like I just announced that she only has two weeks left to live. “So…what…she’s going to spend the rest of her life in that place? She had her own diner, her own family, and now she’s all alone?”