God, I like this man.
I like him a frightening amount, and I don’t quite know how I’m supposed to remain composed when he throws me a curve ball like that.
But even as the thrill of having him show interest in me makes my chest swell, I feel the dampening effect of my reality, and I bite back my disappointment as I lower the flowers.
“I can’t,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Gio’s face falls ever so slightly before he tilts his head. “Why not?”
“I need to take care of Jackson. He’ll be home soon. I can’t just spontaneously go on a date…” I glance over my shoulder, as if expecting my little boy to be stepping out of a minivan just now, and when I turn back around, Gio has his back to me as he reaches for the porch.
As he faces me once more, he produces a bag of takeout boxes balanced in a neat stack.
On the side of the bag is the logo forOsteria Nido, one of the finest Italian restaurants in Chicago. “I already thought about that,” he says. “There’s enough for all of us.”
Bringing a hand up to my cheek, I cover my mouth with my palm as I fight the sudden urge to cry.
Still, tears blur my vision, and I sniffle as my nose prickles with warning that the tears are going to come whether I want them to or not.
Gio’s shoulders sag, the smile dropping from his face as he lowers the bag and takes a step toward me. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?” he asks, palm half extended as if to somehow lend me a hand.
A teary laugh rushes from me as I shake my head and cradle my flowers to my chest. “The opposite, actually. No one’s done anything this sweet for me for as long as I can remember.”
Emotion flits across his face, settling on empathy as his powerful brows press together.
And for a moment, we stand in silence as I try to pull myself back together.
“So… is that a yes?” he presses, taking another step toward me, food all but forgotten by his side.
Another unexpected laugh rushes from me, and I nod. “Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”
Gio has the audacity to look relieved, his megawatt smile returning in full force as if he doubted for a second what my answer would be. “Maybe you’d even be willing to watch a movie with me or something after Jackson goes to bed,” he suggests.
Just the thought of sitting next to him on the couch makes my heart skip a beat. “That would be nice.”
Leading the way up the front porch steps, I unlock the door, letting us into the house.
Gio heads to the kitchen, seeming more comfortable in the space today as he figures out how to work the oven and places the osso buco and penne all’arrabbiata inside to stay warm.
While I get a vase for my flowers and set the table, we keep the conversation light, Gio asking where Jackson is and how the rest of my day went.
Too embarrassed to admit I spent my afternoon sulking about the feelings I’d thought were unrequited, I focus more on the plants I pruned and the new cuttings I made.
“So, your shop is really just self-sustaining at this point,” he observes as he pulls out a bottle of wine and silently offers to open it.
I nod, digging a corkscrew from the back of a drawer and passing it to him. “Not entirely. The potted plants, mostly, yes. But a lot of the flowers for the bouquets come from a greenhouse outside of town. They need shops to sell them in town, and I need someone who has larger stock on hand for any big occasions—weddings, funerals, that sort of thing.”
Gio nods along as he reaches up to one of my top shelves, the powerful lines of his body straining the seams of his black dress shirt that makes him look sinfully gorgeous in his charcoal-gray slacks.
He’s dressed for a major investment meeting, not dinner with me and my son, but somehow, that makes the night feel all the more special.
Setting the wine glasses on the counter, he glances my way and catches me watching him.
With a smirk, he quirks a brow and expertly de-corks the bottle, then pours the wine.
“You’ve really made a living doing what you love,” he observes, his voice deep and warm—almost affectionate—and it melts my core.
“Yeah,” I agree, that strange sense of familiarity sweeping through me.
