by Pippa Grant
“Well, yeah. Your Nonna’s a boss. Have you seen the definition in her arms? She’s a role model for adults everywhere. And did you see the series she did on TikTok yesterday? Where she was Super Nonna flying to the rescue? I cracked up so hard when she rescued that thought bubble and raced it back to that baby. Oh! And when she went side-by-side to make fun of your last shampoo commercial—that was so Nonna. Like, I could see where you get your good looks from.”
“She can’t hear you.”
“I prefer to not take my chances.”
I don’t mention that five minutes ago, she walked in on her grandson with his head between my legs.
Luca doesn’t either. He immediately gets super interested in the pile of books on the counter next to him, and he flips open the cover, tilts his head, and frowns. “You know this Ramona person?”
“The Ramona with the dog, or the Ramona with the broken leg?”
Again, I’m a shark-head.
“Ramona with the dog is in my reader group,” I explain. “Ramona with the broken leg emailed me a few years ago about how she’d binged all my books while she was recovering, and things like that stick with you, you know?”
He takes the next book down on the stack and flips it open too. “Marquita?”
“Messaged me on Instagram after she had a miscarriage when she was reading to escape. We chat a few times a year.”
“Do you know all of these people you’re sending books to?”
“No, but ohmygosh, wouldn’t that be amazing? Readers are the best people.”
I’m waving my crazy. I can see it in his eyes.
I start to explain more, but he gently sets the books back down and murmurs, “Yeah, I’m gonna call it a night if there’s nothing else you need. Thanks for the new faucet.”
He grabs an apple and heads upstairs, and I remind myself again that this is exactly what I need him to do.
Tempt me, and then remind me that love isn’t the answer.
I’m sighing while signing another book a few minutes later when I realize I’m not alone anymore, and it’s not Dogzilla coming back to check on me.
It’s Nonna.
Nonna, with her very firm arms and rainbow hair and seriously amazing bra, because it has to be amazing to make her boobs look that good under her tank top. “You’re not in bed.”
My whole face gets hotter than a pan of flaming ziti, and we’ve all had recent experience with that. While I like to embrace that whole if you’ve seen one body naked, you’ve seen them all concept, I can’t quite get there when it comes to remembering the way her hair stood up on end in a rainbow of horror when she froze in the doorway as Luca was going down on me.
It was like, when I gave my grandson The Eye, I didn’t mean for him to get involved with the most insane woman to cross his path in the last twenty years. Oh my god. Their kids will probably also have devil-horn hair and fake jobs and they’ll get a shed down by the river to hide all their special rocks that they use to pretend to summon vampires, and we are never comparing spas for waxing.
Or something like that.
Still, I smile brightly, because I’ll smile if it kills me. “I have a bunch of work to catch up on.”
“Psh. Your release date isn’t for another week. You can work tomorrow while Luca’s at the ball field.”
My shoulders tense, because those are my writing hours, not my signing hours, and if I ignore the hours that my muse is willing to sit on my shoulder and help me, I won’t get any words done. Plus, I’m already behind on my deadline, since I spent a month not working on this book. But I smile brighter, because that’s what I do when I want people to like me. “That’s a great idea. Thanks. But I still want to finish these last few before I forget what I wanted to say to the readers.”
“Luca hit a home run today.”
“I know! Wasn’t it amazing? Dogzilla and I were listening on the radio and we were cheering so loudly. Dogzilla even made a whole meow in celebration. That’s super impressive for the laziest cat in the universe. Clearly, she adores him.”
“Why have you been engaged five times?”
“Because my three other boyfriends ran away before I could convince them to put a ring on it.”
She lifts a brow that clearly says I’m not laughing because I know you’re telling the truth, and also, you shouldn’t call those second two your boyfriends since you only got their names at that bar and dreamed about them being your boyfriends when you were taking a break from dating between failed weddings three and four.
And I’m out. I leap to my feet. “Oh, gosh, look at the time. You’re right. I should get to bed. Especially since it’s been a few days since Luca and I saw each other. Work can always wait for the people you love. So glad you’re back, Nonna. We missed you. Hope you had a great trip.”
Yep.
I’m a total chicken and completely intimidated by Nonna Rossi.
Also, I’m so distracted by my nerves that I forget to skip that bottom step and it creaks in the worst kind of ominous way, and I’m positive I barely make it to the next step in time.
“Watch out for that cranky step,” I stage-whisper to Nonna before turning and tripping over Dogzilla, who’s sprawled on the next step in the darkness.
“Henri?” The bathroom door opens, illuminating the stairwell, and Luca leans over to peer at me.
“Just petting the stairs!” I stroke the wood and pretend this is normal. “They were feeling neglected. Be up in a minute.”
His face twitches again.
“You got yourself a keeper, Luca Antonio,” Nonna calls. “Life won’t be boring with this one around.”
Is she mocking me?
I think she’s mocking me.
Not the first time. Won’t be the last. It’s her problem, not mine.
I give the stair one final pat, hoist Dogzilla into my arms, and march the rest of the way up to Luca’s bedroom, pausing in the bathroom to pointedly put the toilet seat down.
That’s not a lesson I’m planning on forgetting anytime soon.
Also, Nonna’s welcome for that too.
In the bedroom, Luca’s already stretched out on the queen-size—yes, queen size bed. He’s easily taking up three-quarters of it, and he’s in nothing but black boxer-briefs that are definitely, ahem, fuller than I’ve seen them before.
I snap my eyes up to the squeaking ceiling fan currently running so fast that if it fell apart, one of the blades would probably fly through fifteen feet of reinforced concrete thanks to its velocity. Despite the bucket of cold water that Nonna effectively threw all over my clit fifteen minutes ago, she’s back and in the game.
My clit, I mean.
Not Nonna.
Wow. I’m even awkward in my head tonight. This isn’t a good sign.
“So you know, I sleep almost naked too,” I whisper.
Luca doesn’t open his eyes. “We’re both grown-ups.”
Well.
That’s that, then.
I strip except for my granny panties and the sleeping bra that I special ordered after our night under the stars, and I gingerly climb onto the bed.
The springs squeak, and I suddenly feel about twelve years old again, at my first sleepaway camp where my campmates and I slept in cabins with the windows open for a breeze, on beds that were rescued from college dorms when they’d finally gotten too much use from the co-eds and were only good for charity cases. My skin tingles like it has the same sunburns again from playing in the lake for hours, and my fingers itch to play with clay in the art hut where I spent as much time as possible the entire week.
I sculpted art that looked like giant turds, and my mom displayed my collection proudly next to Elsa’s exquisite charcoal drawings of everyone in our family, right down to the squirrels that she named and knew on sight by personality and fur patterns. My dad claimed he took the sculptures I gave him to his office, though I never saw them displayed, and really, who can blame him?
I sigh and roll onto my side so I’m
taking less room, but now I’m facing Luca, and I can clearly make out his profile in the moonlight streaming in from the open window. “Thank you for the lesson tonight,” I whisper, because what else am I supposed to call it?
He flops around on the bed until he’s facing me. “It wasn’t a lesson.”
Well.
What’s a girl supposed to say to that?
“Look, Henri, I don’t know how to teach you to not fall in love. All I know is how to compartmentalize my feelings so I don’t fall in love. I shouldn’t have done what I did. And you probably shouldn’t be here. I can deal with my Nonna and The Eye. But I’m not going to marry you, or propose, or even be a very good fake boyfriend, so I can’t see what you’re getting out of any of this, and I won’t blame you if you’re gone in the morning.”
Part of my heart lights itself on fire, and the rest watches while little minions from my soul come and beat the ashes with sledgehammers at the idea that I’d leave him in the middle of the night to run home to my mom’s pool house yet again while I search for one more new apartment in the same Chicago suburbs I’ve always circulated in, where I’ll meet one more average guy that I convince myself is my one true love because I’m more obsessed with the idea of happily ever after than I am with looking at the reality of how good—or bad—of a life partner either of us can be to each other. “That’s exactly what I’m getting out of this. The opportunity to not fall in love. To prove it can be done.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, and I want to run my fingers through his thick hair again, but I know better.
Also— “But if you want me to leave, I can go. I’m not without means to take care of myself, and I don’t need to be a burden.”
I don’t add that I don’t want to stand in the way of him finding his true love, or that if he wants to un-Eye himself with some secret formula he knows, I won’t stop him.
Both options seem valid for him.
“You’re not a burden, Henri.”
“You don’t have to say that to be nice. I’m not blind, and I’m not sheltered.”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise and drops his voice again. “You’ve been fun in a lot of ways, but I’m not cut out for this relationship shit, and I’m also not cut out to be an asshole who hurts people for the joy of it, and that’s where this is going.”
“I’m not falling in love with you if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You texted me that you fell in love with a cartoon character.”
“Metaphor.”
Another grunt.
“I asked for this, Luca Rossi. So if you want me to leave because you don’t want me here anymore, say so. Otherwise, I’m going to stay, fulfill my end of the bargain through the end of your season, and be a grown-ass woman who can handle a little bit of pain in the name of growth. Okay?”
His eyes squint open, and he studies me in the semi-darkness for long enough that I should be squirming, but sheer willpower has me simply flexing my toes instead of giving in to the urge to let my whole body slink away.
“Okay,” he finally says.
And then he rolls over to face the window, and I roll over to face the wall, and that’s that.
We’ll continue acting like we’re dating and falling in love to appease his grandmother until I pretend-break Luca’s heart, and most likely, mine will get hurt in the meantime.
But we’re still not getting engaged.
Or married.
Nor will we fall in love for real.
Definitely won’t fall in love for real.
Everything is working exactly the way it’s supposed to.
20
Luca
It’s been five days since that thing that I’m trying not to think about that happened in my kitchen. It’s a damn good thing I’m a professional, or I’d be dropping balls left and right in center field and watching easy fastballs go right by me at the plate. Santiago, who’s our head coach, the manager, the skipper, whatever you want to call him, has me sitting out about every fourth game while he tries different line-ups, which means I’m watching tonight’s game from the dugout, waiting to be tapped later as a pinch hitter, or possibly to not go in at all.
Also, thinking of line-ups and pinch-hitting has me thinking of all the different ways I could spread Henri out on my bed, and no, I don’t entirely know why those phrases prompted images of naked Henri.
Fuck on a noodle, I need that trip to Boston to get here four days ago.
And that’s before I contemplate how Henri’s been bending over backwards, smiling cheerfully at Nonna anytime they cross paths, and generally being the bigger person.
How does she do that without falling apart?
I’d be planting cockroaches in Nonna’s bed by now if I were Henri.
Is she actually that bright-side-of-life in her thinking? Or is she insane? Or is she repressed, and I’d find out if I got her naked again that she’s crazy pants waiting to be unleashed?
I would not mind crazy pants waiting to be unleashed in the bedroom.
Also, she’s nearly naked with me every night as it is, except for the bra and granny panties, which I swear she’s wearing to be an intentional turn-off, but it’s not working.
“Rossi.”
Guilt at the reminder that Henri wants me to teach her to not fall in love, rather than to fantasize about her all day, has me jerking a glance over at Cooper like I’ve been caught choking the chicken in a pubic movie theater.
If he notices my reaction, he ignores it as he skips down the steps into the dugout mid-third inning. He’s grinning at me as he hooks a thumb toward the video screen over center field. “Thought you said your girlfriend wasn’t coming tonight.”
I almost grimace, because despite my teenage fantasies, and despite her making those erotic noises and squeaking my bedsprings like we’re having monkey sex twice now, I have not been involved in Henri coming again.
I have a problem.
I have a serious problem.
And that’s before I let myself look in the direction Cooper’s pointing to see video of my fake girlfriend lined up with Brooks Elliott’s fiancée, Emilio Torres’s girlfriend, and Darren Greene’s wife—complete with their new baby in a sling—at a table with giant cream pies in front of them and with a mascot contender behind each of them.
“What…?”
“The Lady Fireballs are standing in for the mascots in a pie-eating contest. Whichever one wins gets an extra five hundred points for their mascot.”
Mackenzie’s been paired with Spike the Echidna. Tanesha Greene has Meaty the Meatball. Emilio’s girlfriend, Marisol, is teamed up with Firequacker the Duck.
Which leaves Henri with Glow the Firefly.
Glow freaks me out. It’s the butt. His public campaign slogans might be all around voting for Glow because of “baseball butt,” but I’ve never known a baseball player who looks like his asshole decided to fart out the world’s largest bubble, and not a regular fart, but an infected fart on fire.
Seriously, his butt has this massive ball stuck to it, and it’s not right. Mackenzie might take exception to the meatball, but Glow is enemy number one in the Rossi household.
And my fake girlfriend is supposed to help him win five hundred bonus votes?
“This mascot contest needs to end.”
Brooks jogs down the stairs and slaps me on the ass with his glove. “Fiery forever. Welcome to the right side.”
I tilt my head as I study the video screen.
Something’s different about Henri.
It’s not the clothes. She’s worn a Fireballs T-shirt a few times, though the fact that it’s not on backwards is noteworthy.
Is it her make-up?
Have I seen her in make-up?
“I hope you’re not scowling at your girlfriend while the cameras watch us,” Darren mutters as he leans against the railing with me.
“I hate Glow.”
“My wife and baby are on Team Meatball
, and I have to live with that. Get over it, man.”
“Who let Marisol close to that duck?” Emilio asks. “You know what that thing’s willy looks like?”
We all shudder as Grover Flanagan, the Fireballs’ Chief Entertainment Announcer, yells over the intercom for the women to Go!
But none of them bend over and dig into the pie.
I suck in a breath, because while I don’t know what’s different about Henri, I know that look in her eye.
It’s the same look she had yesterday morning at breakfast when she charged into the kitchen in a bathrobe with her hair dripping wet, dropped into a seat at the table, took a hit of cold tea out of her glittery “Addicted to Love Stories” coffee tumbler that she’d left out overnight, and flung open her laptop, where she proceeded to type maniacally and cackle even worse for the next fifteen minutes.
I should’ve left, but I was honestly fascinated.
Especially since she was muttering the whole time.
Apparently she had Confucius accidentally stumble into a day spa that he thought was a den of were-beavers who were gnawing vampire-killing stakes at the behest of the Lord of the Killer Hornets, aka the mob boss of Henri’s world, but it was actually a human day spa, and his super-vampire powers got incapacitated by the lavender clay mask.
I followed more than I want to admit, because admitting it means admitting that when I tell the guys I’m playing Frogger on my phone while we hang out before games, I’ve been bingeing Henri’s Confucius books.
They’re fun and unexpected.
And also wordy, but it’s Henri, so of course they are.
And my point is, I know that look, so I’m already grinning as, instead of leaning over to eat the pies the fastest, the ladies turn together and fling their pies at the mascots.
Meaty takes it right in the face, because he’s basically one big face, plus, Tanesha is a boss when it comes to throwing, which I can say for a fact since she’s been out here a few times tossing the ball with Darren. Firequacker’s pie gets stuck on his beak no matter what Marisol tries. Spike’s pie goes into the spiny needles coming out of his head, because whoever’s inside Spike is smart enough to duck, probably because he got paired with Mackenzie.