Everyone sobers a little, and the guys retreat. The other girl lingers in the doorway, face undecided.
“You’re blowing this way out of proportion. None of them even care who you are.” Iliana takes a step away from him, but turns her ankle in her super-high stilettos and stumbles like a baby deer.
Gabe catches her around the waist, shooting me an embarrassed look. “I’ll be back.”
I feel sick. I’m not really sure what’s going on, but none of it’s good. And I think to minimize everyone’s embarrassment, it’d be better if I just left.
Tossing the tripod and light back into its bag and tucking my laptop under my arm, I hurry to the elevator.
A taxi is idling in front of the building, and I jump inside, grateful I don’t have to wait one more minute to get home. As I shut the door, I get a text message.
Gabe: If you would have waited, I would have driven you home.
I want to type: “Wait while you argue with your sister? Thanks, but no thanks.” Awkward isn’t a big enough word to describe how that would have made me feel.
Instead, I play it off. Autocorrect tries to change my response, but I finally get it to switch to Italian:
Me: Fa niente.
It’s not a big deal to me, but I bet it’s huge to him.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
EMMA AND WILLIAM APPROVE THE VIDEOS FIRST THING MONDAY morning, and we debate whether or not to start with the piano footage or to wait until we’re sure we’ve got the world’s attention. Emma says watching Gabe play is remarkable, and William shakes his head in amazement. I pretend it’s because of the way I edited it—splicing the angles together, playing with the filters—but I know it’s because he’s just that good.
Once the schedule is set, William shows me how to load everything into the automated system. The piano footage will post in thirty minutes, and we’re hoping for eight thousand likes in the first hour. Emma says that will determine whether or not the video will go viral. Everyone on our staff has been notified to like and share from all their social media accounts the moment it drops. I send out positive vibes to the universe, hoping the rest of the world will do the same.
Part of my job will now involve tracking engagements and the hashtags that seem to work best, which means I have to spend at least a few hours every day looking at pictures of Gabriel Fortunato and remembering just how stupid I am.
Gabe dates models and actresses. He hangs out with rock stars and designers. Under no circumstances would he be interested in an intern. He only asked me to accompany him to the gala because I’m a better option than Emma or William.
“Hey!” Katie literally swings into my cubicle, hanging on to the door frame with one hand and leaning forward until her momentum spins her into my space. “How was your weekend?”
“Fine. Nothing exciting to report.”
Katie’s face crumples. “You don’t look fine. You look tired.”
She’s not wrong. I’m exhausted. I stayed up way too late to edit the footage, and I didn’t even bother to steal anything out of Emma’s closet. I debate telling her everything—about Gabe and the hospital kids, and the piano playing, and the scene with his sister—but I don’t. I haven’t been sworn to secrecy, but it doesn’t feel like my story to tell. So instead, I say, “I worked all weekend on Fortunato stuff. How was yours?”
She launches into a spiel about training for her triathlon and the cute guy from her training group and how hard it is to make transitions when your swimwear is wet. And by the end of it all, I feel better. Katie managed to pull some of the sunshine and the lake in with her, brightening my whole cubicle.
Then, William darkens my doorway, frowning at both of us before speaking. “Morning, Coffee. Intern.” He nods toward the ugly conference room. “We’re having an impromptu staff meeting regarding upcoming events.”
Mara, Javi, and Arman are each looking at their phones when Katie and I walk into the room. From the music, I know they’re watching the piano video.
“This is awesome, Maddie.” Arman offers me a high five. “I never would have guessed he could play so well.”
Javi agrees, sort of unwillingly, but Mara doesn’t look up from her phone. She starts it again, while William writes on the whiteboard.
“Where was this filmed at?” she asks as I drop into the chair across from hers.
“At his apartment. He has a grand piano—”
“You were at his apartment over the weekend?” She gives me a smug smirk, then makes eye contact with Javi. “How … cozy.”
“Can’t blame her for mixing business with pleasure.” Javi gives me a super-suggestive wink.
“It’s not like that,” I say. Even though what I’m saying is completely true, I can’t lie to myself. My heart leaps every time my phone buzzes, or I see a picture of him, or I hear his name. And even though I know it’s impossible, there’s a part of me that wishes it was like Mara and Javi are assuming. “It was convenient.”
“I bet it was.” Mara is grinning like the Cheshire Cat, all malevolent and evil.
“Enough.” William draws a big star next to “Fire Party.” “At the end of the month, Velocity is helping with the Chicago Fire’s annual charity banquet. Over the next couple weeks, you’ll all be assigned to double-check RSVPs, personalize gift baskets for your attendees, and handle some sponsorship-related tasks.”
My phone vibrates, and I steal a peek.
Gabe: What do you think of me cooking at Moretti’s? It might be funny.
Me: Funny because you can’t cook?
Gabe: There isn’t anything I can’t do.
It’s such a Gabe response that I can’t help but shake my head at the arrogance.
Me: So you can cook?
Gabe: I’m willing to learn, and Maria is willing to teach me tomorrow.
Gabe: I think it might help their business.
I’m pleasantly surprised that he’s thinking of social media ideas on his own and that he wants to do something that will benefit someone else.
Me: I thought you wanted to keep Moretti’s a secret?
Gabe: I can always come in through the back door.
Me: The video is up. Did you see it?
“Coffee?” William has an Expo marker pinched between his fingers, face equally pinched. Everyone around the table is staring at me, waiting for me to respond to the question my brain didn’t register. “Did you hear anything I said?”
I drop my phone into my lap. “Sorry. What?”
Mara rolls her eyes. Because that’s way more professional than me on my phone in a meeting.
William releases an irritated-sounding breath but presses on without saying anything about my lack of focus. “It’s a red-carpet event, so we’ll need all of you that night. You’ll circulate through the crowd, make sure our clients are taken care of, and help out wherever you might be needed.”
Katie waves one hand to get William’s attention. “Will we get to dress up, or are we like waitstaff?”
“It’s formal, Intern. You will need to be dressed appropriately.”
“Sweet.” Javi gives a little shoulder shimmy. “I look amazing in a tux.”
We all laugh, even Mara.
William gives us all assignments—while I covertly steal peeks at the rising total of likes, holding my breath every time it jumps by double or triple digits.
“I think that about covers it. Get back to work.” William starts to erase his calendar. “Except you, Coffee.”
Crap. I’m definitely in trouble. And it could totally be my imagination, but I swear Mara is thrilled about it as she bounces out of the conference room. And I’d just gotten used to her stomping around the office.
Once everyone is gone, I say, “I was texting Gabe—er, Fortunato—during the meeting. He wants to set up a shoot at his favorite Italian restaurant. They’ve agreed to let him take a cooking lesson, and it might be funny. And I think it might endear him to our target audience. If that’s okay with you, and with Emma of course,
I’ll go tomorrow afternoon.”
“Slow down.” William drops the whiteboard eraser on its tray and rubs his hands together. “First, it’s generally not appropriate to be on your phone during a meeting, but considering what’s going on today, I get it. And second, that’s not why I held you back.”
“Okay.” Sometimes I’m a dork. This is not new information, but it’s a thing I need to remind myself once in a while, especially when I’ve been sufficiently dorky.
“I didn’t see any of the footage with the kids from the children’s hospital. Did you not get it edited?”
“Well … you see … here’s the thing.” I mentally cringe at how I sound. “I got one still shot of Gabe with the kids, but he asked me not to take any more pictures and not to post the one I did take. He felt like it was a little exploitative of the kids, which was why I struck the deal with him to do the piano footage and—”
“Coffee.” William holds up a hand. “Next time give me a heads-up, okay? The piano footage is great, but it doesn’t replace something that has community outreach appeal.”
“Right. Yes. Sure. Sorry.”
“Perfect. And, Coffee, one more thing.”
“Two sugars and a dash of hazelnut?” I offer, hoping that it will relieve the tension a little.
A half smile tugs at his lips. “Is the joke getting old yet?”
On the inside, I’m groaning, but on the outside, I keep my face pleasant. “Not quite yet.”
WHEN I WAS IN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL, MY CLASS DID A SCIENCE PROJect where we raised caterpillars. We watched them hatch, fed them milkweed, and cheered when they started breaking out of their cocoons. On the day we released them, the interior of the butterflies’ container trembled with activity. Dozens of new wings stretched and fluttered, occasionally taking flight and bumping into the net walls.
As I approach Moretti’s, I’m fairly certain a butterfly science project is trapped inside my torso. My stomach practically shivers with excitement, and none of it has to do with Gabe.
Okay, fine. All of it has to do with Gabe, but only a little of it has to do with seeing him again. I really need this to go well so that it’ll get me on William’s good side.
I tamp down all flutters as I come in through the back entrance. Gabe is leaning against the counter, relaxed, nodding along to whatever Maria is saying in Italian. She’s gesturing with her left hand, white towel tossed over her shoulder and a white apron tied around her waist. A man is doing dishes with a giant pull-down hose that looks like it belongs to a power washer, while another man in a black button-down coat and matching pageboy cap is chopping vegetables at light speed. I’d lose a finger doing that.
Gabe turns as I enter the kitchen, and I could totally be daydreaming, but I swear he checks me out. I’m wearing the sleeveless black dress with the high collar and funky hemline from the day I crashed into him on the beach. I know it looks amazing on me, but I don’t expect him to notice. Yet there’s something about the way he looks at me that makes it hard to breathe.
Or maybe that’s just the Gabriel Fortunato Effect.
Maria whips him with the towel. “Stop staring and go help her with those bags.”
The man at the sink laughs without looking up from his duties, and Gabe snaps into action before Maria can smack him again. And while I’m strong enough to carry them, it is a relief to get the strap off my shoulder. Also, I wasn’t imagining his gaze if Maria noticed it too.
“Thank you.” I shake out my nearly numb fingers.
“Is that the dress you were wearing the day we met?” He sets the tripod on the table in the nook. There’s a laugh in his voice when he says, “It looks different when you’re on your feet.”
“Haha. You’re hysterical.”
“I didn’t mean that how it sounded. Well, I did a little.” He holds his hands up like he’s ready to ward off a blow, and Maria looks ready to deal out another towel whack on my behalf. “I meant it looks nice. You look nice in it. It looks nice on you.”
I’ve never seen him flustered, and it’s sort of adorable to see him off balance. And I wonder if it means anything or if I’m reading into it like a lit teacher and inferring something that isn’t there.
“Shall we cook?” He fumbles with the zipper on the tripod bag. “Let’s cook.”
Maria insists I wear an apron and pull up my hair before I start filming, so Gabe puts together the tripod for me. Once everything is set, I drop my phone into the clamp and let Gabe work his magic.
He was right. Watching him cook is pretty funny. Maria is not a patient teacher, and their back and forth is hysterical, mostly in English and occasionally in Italian when she gets frustrated with him. They make a traditional Neapolitan pizza, and she outlines the rules as they go. Rolling pins are not allowed, and watching Gabe attempt to hand toss the crust is maybe the best thing I’ve ever seen. For a minute, he forgets the camera is on, and his face crumples in concentration as he tries to match her technique. Once the dough is stretched to Maria’s satisfaction, they don’t simply slap marinara on it—or spaghetti sauce like we do at my house. Instead, they use homemade sauce from a special type of tomato. Fresh mozzarella and basil go on top of that.
“Olives.” He snaps his fingers. “It needs olives.”
Maria looks at him like he slapped her nonna. “Get out of my kitchen.” She points toward the back door.
Gabe laughs, and when Maria realizes he’s joking, she joins him. She puts one arm around his waist, and he kisses her on the side of the head just like he did with Iliana. It’s so endearing that I can’t help but grin. Which, if I’m being honest, is a little terrifying. Because this Gabe is really, really appealing.
Gabe’s pizza is less round than the one Maria made, but the mozzarella is blistered on top and rises and falls in little valleys with bright chunks of crushed tomato breaking through. I wasn’t hungry until Maria set it at the spot where I ate the last time I was here.
“Sit. Eat,” she commands, and there’s no way I’m turning her down.
“No, no, no.” Gabe swaps Maria’s pizza to his spot and hands me his lopsided one.
“Everyone’s going to know that isn’t the pizza you made. It’s too even.” I try to snatch the pizza back, but he grabs my wrist.
“That’s not the point. I want to see your face when you eat my pizza.”
I cock my head at him. “You’re so sure it’s going to be good?”
The arrogant grin is back. “Everything I do is good.”
“You’re awful.”
“Tell me that after you’ve taken a bite.” He pulls out his phone and focuses it on me. “I’m filming this for proof.”
Maria teaches me that Neapolitan pizza is intended to be eaten like a libretto—a little book—folded in half. Which is super funny considering Chicago is famous for deep-dish pizza, and there’s no way you can fold a slice of that.
“Here goes nothing,” I say to Gabe’s phone and take a bite. The flavor explodes across my tongue, and despite myself, I groan.
“Is it the best pizza you’ve ever had?” Gabe’s eyes are sparkling with mischief as he sits across from me, leg pressed against mine. There’s no simple brushing this time.
“I should say that it’s awful, but—” I take another bite. “That would be a lie. It’s delicious.”
I grab my phone so I can film his response to Maria’s pizza. He takes a bite, closing his eyes for a moment of delight. I know that expression isn’t fake.
While he’s mid-chew, I push my phone toward him, nibbling my bottom lip nervously. “Did you see this?”
He has the pizza halfway to his mouth, but he doesn’t bite it again, considering the information on the screen.
“More than ten thousand likes in the first hour; more than eight hundred thousand in the first twenty-four.” I can’t stop myself from beaming. “ESPN retweeted it at noon. There’s a huge chance it’ll go viral.”
He picks a piece of tomato off the edge of his pizza before it can
fall and puts it on the platter. “Great.”
Gabe is decidedly less enthusiastic than I’d hoped, and it’s like a cold frost on my poor butterflies. “Are you worried about the comments? Because I’ve looked through them and everyone is so impressed.” I scroll down, looking for a name with a checkmark beside it. “Look! That’s the anchor from Good Morning America.”
“I saw.” He takes another bite, never once looking at me.
The butterflies are dead. Their poor little corpses are frozen pebbles at the bottom of my stomach. “You’re not happy. You’re mad.”
He half tosses his pizza onto the plate. “I’m glad that people like watching me play the piano.”
“There’s a huge ‘but’ at the end of this sentence.”
His mouth curls on one side. “I don’t see any butts, especially huge ones.”
He’s trying to deflect with humor, but I’m not going to take the easy out he’s offering. “But, you’re embarrassed? You don’t want everyone to know you play so well? You wished you’d kept your talent—”
“My mother saw it,” he says bitterly.
Gabe has said very little about his family, but I remember our first conversation here. He didn’t say anything specifically, but I got the sense that his relationship with his parents was difficult.
“Given the other things on Instagram, I don’t think this is the worst thing she could have seen you doing.”
That draws a real smile out of him, even if it is slightly unwilling. “That is probably true.”
“So why are you all worked up?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“How do you know? I have parents that I struggle with from time to time.” Which is sort of an understatement.
He looks up at me, conflict clear in his eyes. He lets out a long, slow breath before he speaks again. “My parents are—well, my mother mostly is—impossible to please. The first thing she said to me this morning was, ‘How could you let yourself get so out of practice?’” He gives a cold-sounding laugh. “Ten thousand people commented that they were impressed, but my mother could only complain about my fingering in the twelfth measure. I explained that I’ve been a bit busy, trying to be a professional calcio player. And she said … ‘Trying. Not succeeding.’”
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