“Also, I thought you said this was ‘low-key,’ but it’s creeping into intimate wedding territory.”
I chuckle. “Thisislow-key, baby.”
We both freeze. Regardless of my feelings for her, “baby” was an unintentional slip. I nervously bite my lip, hoping she’ll just let it go. After staring at me for a few seconds that seem to stretch into eternity, she slips her hand through mine. Taking a sip of water, she asks, “Hey, Gio?”
A pleasant feeling washes over me when she calls me by my nickname, akin to how I feel when I sew on Nonno’s vintage machine.With the exception of Lu and Micheletto, who use the shortest version of my name, everyone in New York calls me Giovanni. When I speak with my family, the people I love most, I wear “Gio” like a cashmere blanket. And it feelsright, her calling me that, too.
“Sorry. I mean, Giovanni.”
Clearly taking my reflective pause for aversion, I hastily correct her.
“No, don’t stop calling me Gio. I like it when you call me that.” She widens her eyes, and I wonder if I’ve revealed too much of myself. The desperate edge to my voice serves as a reminder of how real this is for me.
But Tessa’s surprise doesn’t shift into something stilted. Instead, her lips curve into a private smile, one that seems crafted just for me. “Okay.”
“So, what did you need?”
Her eyebrows knit together. “What did I need?”
“Yeah, you said ‘hey, Gio.’ Remember?”
“Oh.” She pauses, then a crimson blush blooms on her face. “I just wanted to say you look good tonight. I know I don’t say it often, but…” Her eyes scan my fitted pants and button down. “Your work is so well crafted. I love the stitching on the cuff of the trouser.” She gives me a shy smile. “You look really handsome, Gio.”
The countryside massage and gelato shop kiss have absolutely nothing on the lust-filled look in her eyes at this moment. I try to scrounge up my remaining willpower to get through this party without rudely kicking everyone out—including Mamma and Papa—and taking Tessa to bed.
Chapter 31
Tessa
An hour of mingling later, Gio is pulled away to patch up someone’s ripped hem. Music plays, and everyone dances in the garden area. The thought of dancing mixed with the lack of Gio’s presence unsettles me. I wander into the kitchen for a moment to gather myself.
Although we’re physically in Italy, the complex emotional state I’m in is more aligned to Greek mythology. If life here were a tragedy, I’d star as the Hydra, but with emotions instead of heads. Each time I have one under control, two more feelings grow.
A few dishes linger in the sink, and I grab Maria’s apron from where it’s hanging on the wall. After tying it around my neck and waist, I pick up a dish and start washing it with a sponge. I peer through the window above the sink into the garden, where Gio’s relatives dance. Everyone seems so full of life, moving without inhibition. Roberto skillfully twirls Maria, her laughter rising above the music.
Gio seems so happy and vibrant tonight surrounded by his family and friends. I can’t imagine how lonely he is in New York.I wonder why he’s stayed in New York for so long when it meant leaving his loved ones behind. They’re not even my family, and I know I’ll miss them when this—if this—is over.
The massage in the countryside plays in my mind on repeat. The gentle way he took care of me. Every time I see him, I remember the intimacy of it all. The thought of this ending…
“Is it an American thing? To hide in the kitchen during a party?”
I smile at the low, teasing tone of voice that caresses my back. Placing the dish on the rack to dry and rinsing my hands before wiping them on the apron, I spin around to face Gio. “I can’t speak for the rest of Americans at parties, but washing dishes is certainlynota me thing. Sometimes I eat soup directly out of a pot to avoid washing a bowl.”
Smirking, he takes a step toward me.
“I’m actually ashamed at the amount of paper plates I’ve bought over the course of my lifetime. I’m considering taking up volunteer work to atone for my environmental sins.”
Another step closer now, and I can smell the bergamot notes in his cologne.
“And I’ve tried, Gio, believe me. I even bought glass tupperware once.” I pause for dramatic effect. “There was only one problem.”
Standing directly in front of me now, looking down with rapt amusement, he asks, “And what was that?”
“I don’t eat leftovers. I alwayssayI will, like how I say I’ll make salad at home with the fresh spinach I buy every week at the store. But it’s aspirational.” I sigh, my breath wafting over his neck.
He chuckles, and his breath warms my forehead.
“Anyways, the leftovers grew mold.” Lowering my voice, I whisper, “I ended up throwing the tupperware in the trash.”
