Page 95 of Falling for Mr. October

Spoiler alert: whatever the book is, we know the ending. They’ll end up together.

I pressed my palm against the wall again before I wrote my response:

That’s why people read romance. They like to know there’s a happy ending. In life, there are no happily-ever-afters.

Because we all get old and end up in a nursing home before we die, isn’t that right? ;-)

That’s mostly true, but that’s not WHY. It’s because nothing is so simple in real life.

Sometimes we need an escape that is simple. Something sweet, where we know that whatever happens, it’s going to be all right.

Fuck, the Smut Slut hat got to you too, didn’t it?

Goodnight, Giovanni.

Sleep tight, bella ragazza. I’ll be dreaming of you. After I start this boring book, of course.

I tapped the side of the phone for a moment before responding with the full truth:

I’ll be dreaming about you too.

And I really did. Which makes it even more absurd that I can’t bring myself to go downstairs now.

“You’re being a coward,” I murmur to myself, sniffing the apple-scented air.

I don’t like the thought of my own cowardice. So I take a quick shower, apply copious amounts of concealer to my throat to hide the love bites Giovanni gave me, change into a black dress, throw my hair into a bun, and finally head downstairs.

I pause in the threshold of the kitchen, my hand rising to my throat. Dean Martin is playing on the Bluetooth speaker we keep in here, and Giovanni is dancing my laughing nonna around the kitchen while Nonna Francesca beams at them. He’s wearing one of those stupid Sir Gala-Head shirts that were heaped on him by Rhett, but not even Sir Gala-Head can make him less irresistible.

The sight is so unexpected, so dear, that I feel tears pooling in my eyes. God, it’s been good for her, having them here.

After Great-Uncle Ted died and Miles ran off again, I could tell her spirit was withering—she was shrinking, the way Giovanni told me he’d witnessed his grandparents becoming lesser versions of themselves. But now her spirit is waxing as bright as the moon. She’s happy, and the sight of her dancing like this with Giovanni is almost too much for me.

I’m overwhelmed by him. He has so much beauty of spirit it filters into everyone around him.

Then Nonna Rose catches sight of me, and her eyes light up with mischief—with love. “Bianca. You should be dancing with our boy. The two young people need to dance together. Please.”

“Yes,” Nonna Francesca says, clapping her hands like she’s demanding a show.

My nonna pulls away from Giovanni and joins Francesca at the table, wrapping her arm around her old friend, and Giovanni holds his hand out to me. His eyes are dancing, and I feel a lurch of awful yearning.

I’m letting him get too close, and I know it, but the only true choice is to take his hand. He’s mine, for the time he’s here, and one autumn of him will have to be enough. I know he would never break that promise he made. There’s nothing with greater hold than a deathbed promise.

He whirls me around as my nonna’s favorite singer croons, his deep voice filling the corners of the kitchen with vibrancy—and my heart leaps as Giovanni pulls me back to him and holds me, briefly, to his chest.

“You look beautiful this morning,” he murmurs, before he spins me away from him again.

Our nonnas look as happy as if they were standing at our wedding, a thought that makes me smile even though I know there will be no wedding for us. No happily ever after. No simple, kick-your-feet ending.

“Can I spin you?” I ask, the next time we’re pressed close.

Giovanni laughs softly. “You can try.”

I do, but he’s much too tall, and Nonna Francesca calls out, “No, you must let Giovanni lead. You will fall.”

And I very nearly do, but Giovanni catches me in his arms. We’re both laughing, our eyes locked, and he slowly releases me. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”

“And what did you make for us today, Oh Shirted Chef?” I can see a stack of golden brown waffles on a plate behind him, but I want to hear him tell me.