For a moment, I stand frozen, phone still pressed to my ear like he hasn’t hung up yet. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hopeful for some version of a relationship with my father. And it’s those slivers of hope that prevent me from completely telling him off—and telling Daniel about any ofthis, period.
I always thought it was Daniel’s fame that interested Dad, but maybe it’s something else about him, too. Something I must lack.Because, the truth is, it’s not just my father that’s invited me into a relationship built with expectations I will never meet. It’s my own boss. It’sGiovanni.
Thinking of Giovanni reminds me that I’m standing in his shop, and I need to pull myself together before he comes back. I slide the phone in my pocket and busy my hands by picking up the first thing I can grab—one of the dusty sewing guides that decorates the coffee table,The Complete Guide to Sewing. The weathered edges of the book feel flimsy beneath my fingers, and I sigh.
Foundational Sewing was a required class in fashion school, but it could’ve been called Computer Programming. All the sewing machines were automated; you could simply select your stitch with the press of a button. There was a small unit on hand sewing with the most basic stitches, and I was so terrible that my TA asked if I’d been sewing drunk.
I avoided taking any additional sewing electives after that. But now, as I inch closer to the goal of designing my own line, I’m determined to try again. In an alternate universe—one where I’m featured inVogueand Giovanni enjoys working with me—I might ask him for help. Instead, I’ll pray my sewing sobers up with online tutorials and needle pricks.
“What are you doing?” A deep, distressingly sexy voice cuts through the silence.
I flinch, dropping the guide back on the table and hiding my hands behind my back like a criminal.
“Why were you looking atThe Complete Guide to Sewing?”
I spin around to see his eyebrows raised in curiosity. I’d leave to avoid answering his question, but I don’t want him to tell Lamont I’m slacking off.
I place my hands on my hips and try to maintain some semblance of professionalism. “Was I not allowed to read it?”
His eyebrows knit together. “If you think you can just rifle through my things and leave with no explanation, you’re barfing up the wrong tree.”
“It’sbarkingup the wrong tree!” I raise my voice, waving my hands around in exasperation.
He narrows his gaze. “If anyone’s barking, it’syou.”
“Oh my God, Giovanni. You drive me up the wall.” I take a step in his direction.
His eyes crinkle at the corners, almost like he’s enjoying this, and he answers with a step of his own toward me. “Andyou’lldrivemeto an early grave.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your window of time for anearlygrave has passed.”
“I’m only five years older than you.” We’re so close now that the force of his exhale pushes a few strands of hair away from my face.
“Five years is a long time. People can get a whole degree in that amount of time. Have a few kids. Compete in the Summer Olympics. Build two Eiffel Towers.”
“Oddio,Tèssa.” He wipes a hand down his face, breathing heavily. “Sometimes, you just don’t see it.”
Now the toes of our shoes are touching, and my breaths get shallower. He always gets under my skin, no matter what I do. It’s so… so…
“Why are you guys standing so close to each other?” a small, sweet voice pipes up.
Giovanni and I look down at the same time and his chin bumps my forehead. Dear Lord, we arehorrificallyclose.
Taking a giant step backwards, I rub the spot where his skin touched mine as Giovanni disappears from view. When I look down, he’s hugging a young boy, playfully putting him into aheadlock. The boy, maybe nine years old, laughs and swats at Giovanni’s arm.
Giovanni bats the child’s hands away. “Can’t take it, ometto?”
Just as I’m about to askwho is this adorable child and what is he doing in your Little Shop of Horrors, a pretty woman stumbles through the door, nearly dropping the massive casserole dish in her arms.
“Shit—I mean,shoot. Michael, you’re tracking mud from the playground into the shop. Can you take off your shoes, sweet pea?” She sets the dish down on a nearby table and beelines for Giovanni, throwing her arms around his neck. “Hey Gi. I know it’s not much, but we were rushing today.”
“I’m pretty sure this could feed a family of eight, Lu. It’s perfect, thank you.” He grins, pulling back to kiss her cheek.
Wow. A genuine Gio smile. When was the last time I saw that in the wild?
My stomach twists. I don’t know if it’s from bickering, hunger, or happening upon Giovanni’sSecret Family, but after a long day of work, this is the Red 40-dyed cherry on top of the worst figurative sundae I’ve ever eaten.
The woman (hiswife?) appears normal enough, attractive in a paisley pattern sundress that may as well have been made for her (was it?). Her curly blonde hair matches that of her (their?) son.
