Page 87 of Falling for Mr. October

“I’m in North Carolina, which is considerably larger, so it would only be sensible for my ego to expand.”

I wrap a hand around his bicep. “So I don’t understand why you’re so afraid to embrace all of this.”

Right away, I know that I chose the wrong word. I have two brothers, so I truly should have known better. No man wants to believe he’s capable of fear.

Giovanni’s eyebrows wing up. “You think I’m a coward.”

“I never said that. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

“You do, though.” He nods toward my computer. “I know that’s what all of them think, too, and they’re right. You all are.” He gets to his feet and paces a few steps before stopping in front of me, his expression agonized. “Look, Bianca, I haven’t told anyone else, but I’ve tried making videos since this happened. I’ve tried at least a dozen times. I can’t do it anymore.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely baffled.

“I don’t know. It felt stupid, running around with my shirt off, acting like it was still some secret when everyone already knew. It doesn’t feel natural. There’s no magic. So I can’t go on any shows or talk to any talent agents if I don’t know whether I can even do it anymore. It would be even more of an embarrassment.”

“Will you let me help you?”

“Help me do what? Stand frozen in front of the camera like I couldn’t prepare a Pop-Tart to save my life?”

“Maybe you’re going about it the wrong way,” I say, eager, touching his arm again. “We need to try coming at it from a different angle.”

He’s watching me with an intense gaze, as if I might be his salvation, and I want so badly to help guide him to the solution that will take away his pain. It’s different from the need I have to help sick and grieving people. This is personal. I want to help him because I care about him.

An acrid edge creeps into the delicious aroma suffusing the kitchen, and Giovanni swears and runs to the stove, then yanks the pan off the heat before all but tossing it onto the next burner.

He’s angry.

He’s in pain.

And I want so badly to wrap my arms around him and squeeze until some of my strength pours into him. My heart wants to open itself to him. It’s such a strong desire that I’m horrified by it.

Because it’s the kind of desire that could ruin a woman.

“I can’t even make you dinner without fucking it up,” he says, burying his face in his hands.

Then it doesn’t matter that I’m an emotional coward and my inclination is to keep this man at a distance. I need to go to him.

So I get up, almost in a daze, and wrap my arms around him. He pulls me close and tucks me into him, lowering his chin to the top of my head, and cradles me.

We don’t talk for a long moment. We just stand like that, wrapped together, two people who have fought long and hard with our own ghosts, needing a time-out together.

Giovanni is the first to break away. “I’ll clean that up and make you something else.”

“No,” I insist, grabbing his hand before he can even try. “You’ve made us dinner nearly every night since you arrived. Let me make you something. I may not have much of a repertoire, but I can make eggs. Let me make you some eggs.”

“I like eggs,” he says with a smile. His eyes are full of admiration, and I want to bask in it, and dear God, I’m really in trouble, aren’t I?

I wasn’t supposed to care about his charm, or his pretty face, or his impressive muscles. And I haven’t, not really. It’s all of him together—this man who feels divided into two but isn’t, not in the way he thinks.

I press against his chest, my hand expanding because all of it wants to touch him. “Go sit down, tough guy. Let yourself relax. You’ve had a big day of putting out fires, and⁠—”

“And fucking you?” he asks, his voice husky. “I’ve been thinking about it. I’m going to think about it every time I see this counter.” He pauses. “Anytime I see any counter.”

“Good.”

He smiles at me, but I see the wounded man behind it.

“Let me take care of you,” I beg, holding him close by his shirt.