“Whenever you’re ready,” Enzo calls from behind the camera.
I brace myself as Giovanni leans closer to me and whispers in my ear, “Lamont, wearing tacky red headphones, houndstooth gaucho pants, and a rainbow bubble shirt, riding a miniature horse while holding a football in one hand and a torch in the other.”
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’tthat. An automatic smile stretches across my face, maybe the biggest smile I’ve ever smiled, as I try not to laugh and ruin the pose.
“While we have your smiling eyes, go ahead and take a lick of your gelato, Tessa. Gio, give me a smile.” I take a big lick of my gelato, and the cold ice cream is a reprieve from the warmth of Giovanni’s body behind mine.
“You two are naturals! Relax for a few minutes while I look at the pictures.”
Enzo takes a moment to review the shots he captured on his camera, clicking through them with a pleased expression on his face. I walk toward the bench and sit down.
Giovanni walks over and joins me on the bench. “So, did I make you smile?”
I forgot that he couldn’t see, standing behind me.
“Yeah.” I blush, and a half-grin appears on his face.
We sit in silence for a moment, and Enzo instructs us to slide off most of the gelato from our cones, so the gelato appears eaten. Giovanni slides both of our gelatos into an empty cup and hands me back an empty cone.
“We’re almost done.” Enzo fidgets with some of the dials on his camera to set up the shot.
“You have gelato just there.” Giovanni points to the side of my chin.
“Oh shoot.” I look down frantically. “I don’t want anything to drip on the dress.”
“It won’t stain. I’m not worried about it.” He takes a seat next to me on the bench.
I swipe the corner of my chin with my thumb. “Did I get it?”
He gives me a lopsided grin.
I release a defeated sigh. “I made it worse, didn’t I?”
Giovanni chuckles. “Mhm, but I can help.”
He reaches up with his thumb toward my chin before Enzo stops us.
“Hold on! I love that shot. Gio, can you kiss the gelato off Tessa’s chin instead?”
We both freeze as though we’re being held at gunpoint.
“You sure that won’t be too much for the ad?” Giovanni croaks.
Wishful thinking.
“Not at all. They want a romantic undertone, so it’ll be perfect.”
Perfect. I’d laugh if I wasn’t so nervous.
Giovanni turns toward me with a raised eyebrow, a silent question on his face. He waits patiently for what I assume is my consent.
I’m not sure how to get out of this one. And… I’m not sure if I evenwantto get out of it. Over the past few weeks of working closely together, my feelings about Giovanni have privately transformed from admiration for his craft to admiration forhim.
It’s hard to overcome our past. But the Giovanni I thought I knew in New York is not the same Giovanni I’ve experienced in Italy. The beloved son. The fierce protector. The gentlecaretaker. The wry humor. Qualities that seem so natural, so innate in him, it makes me wonder how I missed them before.
I pause for a moment, and in that stillness, the answer becomes quite clear: turn up my intuition and gut instinct, and turn down my inner critic and judge.
“Tessa?” he murmurs.
