It piques my curiosity and makes me wonder just what happened in this man’s past to make him look so… broken.
Who is this man?
I might feel like I know him, but when it comes down to it, I know next to nothing about him. “What about you, Gio? Have you ever read them before? Or maybe you have another favorite book from your childhood?” I prod, searching for some insight into him.
He chuckles, that low, rumbling sound so similar to that of the man in my dreams that it sends electric tingles rippling through my body.
Swallowing thickly to wet my suddenly parched throat, I try to maintain a polite smile as I wait for his response.
“Believe it or not, someone has read those stories to me as well,” he says, winking at Jackson conspiratorially. “And yes, I would count them among my favorites,” he adds, his eyes twinkling as they come back to me.
My heart flutters, and I force myself to take a bite of lasagna to cover the physical effect his glance has on me.
As does his seemingly genuine interest in Jackson.
The two talk with such casual comfort, I can see why my little boy thinks of Gio as his friend.
It warms my heart to think that, not only did Jackson make a new friend, but he even connected with someone who could be closer to a father figure.
And it gives me hope that he won’t always be so painfully shy to his own detriment.
Dinner might just be the most fun I’ve had in a long time, with lots of laughter and free-flowing conversation.
By the end of it, I’m astonished by just how incredibly comfortable I feel around Gio.
He managed to disarm me completely the other day, even when I was feeling overprotective of Jackson.
And nothing I’ve seen since has made me second-guess my gut feeling that I can trust him.
In short, I like him.
I like him more than I’ve liked any man for as long as I can remember.
“Alright, bud, it’s time for homework,” I say when the last of the plates is scraped clean and the meal finished.
For what might be the first time in his life, Jackson actually deflates at the thought of doing homework.
His shoulders slump as he glances toward Gio like he would much rather stay and chat with his new friend.
But he doesn’t argue as he slides out of his chair and gathers several dishes from the table.
Gio does the same as I reach for the casserole dish to pack the leftovers away.
“You don’t have to help,” I insist as he follows us to the kitchen. “You’re our guest.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Gio says, stacking the plates with Jackson’s before going back for the rest.
He and Jackson exchange a fist bump before my son scampers up the stairs, then Gio comes to stand beside me as I rinse the dishes in the sink.
“Dishwasher?” he suggests, gesturing to the stack that’s building up on the counter.
“That would be great.” I glance at Gio from the corner of my eye as he bends over to load the dishes.
With his big, broad shoulders straining the fabric of his crisp green dress shirt and his trim torso tapering to the waist of his black slacks, he looks far too large for the tiny space—not to mention too classy.
Everything in my life runs on creative and casual—even my alarm clock, it would seem.
In comparison, Gio looks like he hasn’t slept in a day in his life.
