Page 6 of Falling for Mr. October

I study my grandmother. “Theo doesn’t know about this, does he? You didn’t tell Isabella either.”

She takes a sip of the wine. “This is still my house, is it not? Whoever I ask to stay here is my business.”

“But Theo runs the farm now.”

“Miles owns half of it, and I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to have his friend helping out. You know those high schoolers Theo rounded up to work at the pumpkin patch on the weekends are no good. Theresa said they’ve been selling weeds.”

I sigh. “Nonna, you grew up in the 1960s. You know what weed is.”

“You treat me like an old woman,” she scoffs. “You don’t let me speak.”

“Okay, sorry, go on. Theresa had a vision of them selling weed, so now you want to replace them with the strange man you invited to live in our house.”

“She saw them selling it last weekend. With her own eyes, not in a vision. They couldn’t even be bothered to answer her questions about the pumpkins. Giovanni would be much better. Theo can put him in charge of the pumpkin patch before the full-time schedule starts next month, and I would love for Francesca to help me with all the baking. It gets lonely in the kitchen all by myself.”

“I’ll get you a dog.”

“And who’s going to vacuum the fur?”

I recognize a circular argument when I’m stuck in one. “Yeah, okay. I’m going to go take a shower. But I’m telling Theo and Isabella about all of this. They deserve to know.”

“Very well. But wait until after dinner. I don’t want their fuss ruining our spaghetti,” she says with a sigh, as if she planned on keeping a six-foot-something man, his grandmother, and their Range Rover hidden. Knowing her, she just might have managed it.

I take a long shower and then pull on a fresh outfit, relieved to throw today’s scrubs into the dirty clothes basket. I step into the hallway, ears attuned to the sounds of our guests.

A low rumble of conversation drifts up the stairs, along with the smell of the sauce. I turn the corner toward the staircase, my toes burying into the soft runner, and smack into a hard body.

Alarm lights up every synapse, and I don’t think—I lift up both hands and shove.

Horror floods me as my human brain catches up. Giovanni was standing at the top of the steps, and now he’s teetering, his eyes rounding with alarm.

He grips the old carved banister at the same moment I fist handfuls of his shirt and pull him toward me.

He steps onto the landing, into my space, and even though he’s safe now—no chance of being accidentally murdered—I don’t release his shirt.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Oh my God.”

He raises his arm and soothes his big hand up and down my back, seemingly unbothered by my wet hair. I’m so relieved he’s okay that I lean into him, feeling his firm, warm chest beneath my fisted hands. He must have been driving all day, but somehow he still smells like a spicy forest. I burrow into him for a few seconds, letting him run his hand down my back, until he whispers into my ear. “I knew you wanted me gone, but I didn’t think you’d resort to murder this fast.”

I don’t push him. I’m not about to make that mistake twice within thirty seconds, but I shrug out of his embrace and step away until my back hits the wall, covered in wallpaper so old there are multiple pockets where air has gotten in. “It was an accident. You crept up on me.”

His big grin spreads easily across his pretty face. “I’m a six-foot-three man who lifts weights. I don’t creep up on anyone.”

I suck a deep breath, letting it ease out, and slide down the wall until I’m sitting. “Of course you had to mention you lift weights.”

“What’s the point of doing it if no one notices?” he asks, taking a step toward me.

“What are you doing here? Be honest.”

He approaches and sits against the wall beside me, his knees nearly touching mine. I want to pull away, but if I do it’ll feel like some kind of tell.

It strikes me that we’re sitting against the wall next to the stairs, the way two children might do if they wanted to spy on a grown-up party.

“Here in North Carolina, or here on this landing?” Giovanni asks.

“Both.”

He gives me a sidelong look, his face a disconcerting echo of the boy I remember. He was softer then and so much smaller. It’s wild to think that this same rug was on the floor the last time I saw him. The same paper was covering the walls. He’s been transformed, but this house has not, as if time marches slower here.