“No, but I am trying to get into my house. Alone. Preferably without the sad panda thoughts I’d finally managed to shake before you showed up today.”
“Oh. That was a hint.”
“It was.”
“I’m bad with the subtle.”
He swipes a hand over his mouth and looks up at the sky, and I’m certain he’s not stifling a smile.
Probably the exact opposite.
Time to forge ahead. “I’m here because I need your help.”
“And now I pay the price for my sins,” he mutters.
I’d ask what his sins are, but my google searches were very thorough.
Normally, he really would be the last person on earth I’d turn to for help.
“I don’t want money or anything like that. And I’d rather no one know I’m here, so I’m not after your fame either, though I wouldn’t mind some tips on how to get my hair as good as yours always is. I’ve tried Kangapoo before, and—wait. Sorry. Off-topic. I need you to teach me how to not fall in love.”
His entire body goes still, except for his eyes, which slowly settle on me in the dark.
And oh no.
It’s the tingle.
It’s the tingle over my skin that precedes the quiver in my breasts that sends a jolt of sensation rocketing to my lady bits, which will inevitably short-circuit my brain and make me think I’m falling in love with Luca Rossi.
I. Will. Not. Fall. In. Love. With. Luca. Rossi.
The eye contact is a lie. It’s not love. And Luca Rossi doesn’t do love.
I know, because he told me, and then I did my research and confirmed that he’s exactly the man for the job.
“You want me to what?” His words are slow and deliberate, like he’s grounding himself back in reality after taking a trip on the crazy train.
I might’ve heard that tone a time or two before.
But I forge ahead, because I don’t have a back-up plan. “You don’t believe in love.”
Again, no answer.
I’m going to have to do this the hard way. “After the last time we saw—erm, didn’t see each other, I went on my honey—post-traumatic event trip solo, and while I was there in the Canadian Rockies, I met this guy, and I felt this—this instant connection to him. He was a lumberjack type, super funny, super smart, super handsome, super into me, and I realized I was falling for him. When I knew nothing about him other than that he looked great in plaid and he knew how to trim his beard and he could tell a thousand different jokes about pickles, and then I was like, Henrietta Bacon, you know better. You. Know. Better. And I realized I need help. I need to stop falling in love, because if I hadn’t hopped the first flight out of Canada after that and forced myself into isolation for a week or two, I’d probably be planning wedding number six right now, and that’s insane. So I asked myself, who do I know who can help me not fall in love?”
“Maybe a therapist?”
“No good. Third fiancé. I can’t go back to therapy.”
“Christ on a meatball…”
“Which means… It’s you. You won’t fall in love with me. You don’t even believe in love. You’ve said so yourself. I read about your wedding—well, I mean about your not-wedding. And also some of those articles you were quoted in a few years ago. And even though there aren’t any more recent articles, I’m guessing it’s less because you changed your mind and more because someone told you to shut up if you want to keep getting paid to do shampoo commercials. So I want you to teach me how to not fall in love with anyone else too.”
Wow.
It’s been a few years since someone has stood there staring at me with their jaw hanging open.
Not that I can blame him. I did lay it all out there, and it’s probably not every day someone’s willing to do that.
Or maybe it is. I don’t know what people say to famous athletes.
He shakes his head like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream. “Where are your writer friends?”
“They were all from a group in South Carolina, so they’re on their way home.” I have other writer friends, but they’re all over the world and unable to drop everything at a moment’s notice to stop me from doing something stupid.
“Your hotel?”
“I didn’t know which one to pick, and I forgot to ask for a recommendation before I left the ballpark. Do you have one you like?”
“Your parents?”
“Mom’s glad I’m not crying in her pool house anymore, and Dad’s probably re-allocating funds in case I decide to throw another pre-wedding. It’s what he’s started calling the expense of my weddings, since they never happen even though I start planning them immediately after the proposal, though in my defense, at least two were called off before we got into five-figure spending.”
He mutters something else that I don’t understand, which is probably best for my questionable ego, and then looks down at Dogzilla again. “What is that?”
“She’s my cat.”
“I can see that, but what’s she wearing?”
“She felt like a unicorn today.”
More mutters.
He thrusts his hands through his hair, then points at the door. “Get inside.”
Yes! “You’ll help me?”
“Yes. I’ll help you not get murdered by wandering lost in the city after midnight, looking for a hotel where you won’t propose to the clerk on sight, and tomorrow, I’ll help you by getting you on your way back to your mother’s pool house, and then I’m going to help myself by getting very, very drunk and forgetting any of this happened.”
I beam at him.
Because while this is currently a no for everything I’m asking, he’s not kicking me out yet.
I still have a chance. I also make some mean breakfast waffles, which may be exactly the reason two of my proposals happened.
Not that I’m looking for a proposal.
The exact opposite, actually. And I’m willing to be ruthless in making him waffles to get what I need to have a happy rest of my life, if need be.
I’m also not falling madly in love with him, despite what those initial tingles made me fear, so maybe I need to soak up some of these grumpy vibes, and then everything will be absolutely perfect.
All I need is an excuse to stay a smidge longer.
And probably to figure out what I can do to pay him back for the favor.
Watch out, world. Henri Bacon has a plan.
5
Luca
The next morning, I swim into consciousness to the smell of tomatoes, oregano, sausage, cheese, and doom.
It takes me a few minutes of staring up at my wobbly ceiling fan and listening to the birds outside my open window before full understanding of the doom part registers, and when it hits, it hits hard.
I leap up, dance into my boxer briefs, and fly out of the room after opening my door.
Why is my door closed?
Better question—how long has doom been here cooking if the smell has invaded my room despite the lack of airflow?
I thunder down the stairs, leaping past the bottom step by instinct after living in this house long enough to have tripped on the sag in it six times already, spin, and dart through the torn-apart living room and into the shithole known as the kitchen.