Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(47)

“Luca, I’m—Nonna!”

Oh, no, she’s not, because I’d never—

She swats my head, squeaks, and then says it again, this time in a hiss. “Nonna.”

“I don’t care,” I tell her pussy.

“Is that so, Luca Antonio?” my grandmother answers.

I jerk my head up.

Henri dives off the counter, lands on a book, which slips out from under her, and she goes flying, legs spread, beaver exposed while my grandmother stands in the doorway surveying her handiwork.

“What are you doing?” I explode while I throw a dish towel, and then a book, and then finally Henri’s shirt at the woman crawling on the floor to try to hide behind a table leg.

Nonna looks at me.

Then at Henri.

Then back to me.

She smiles. “Preening. I’ll be in the guest room. And I’ll wear earplugs.”

Nonna Gels her way out of the kitchen doorway, because that’s Nonna.

Henri peeks up at me. She’s crouched over like she’s playing the part of a turtle in a grade school play, but even the sight of her naked sides and legs is making my dick strain harder.

“So that was my next lesson?” she whispers. “It was very nice. Thank you.”

Very nice.

Thank you.

Only Henri.

“You’re welcome,” I mutter. Because what else is a guy supposed to say to that?





19





Henri



I, Henrietta Leonora Bacon, am not falling in love with Luca Rossi.

I’m not entirely certain what exactly just happened, but I know that if I don’t acknowledge it, then it’s not happening. Even if he’s not the jerk that Jerry made him out to be, that doesn’t mean I’m falling in love.

It means I’m learning to appreciate a man without feeling the need to get engaged to him.

Yep. That’s it.

And the fact that my feelings toward the man who’s re-stacking my books while I pull my clothes back on have warmed after getting to know him better, coupled with him saving me from the hockey players who were saving me from the bird that wanted my hat right before he left, added on to our funny text exchanges while he was gone, and I might still have the hat he gave me tucked in my luggage so I can sniff it occasionally—those are all merely signs that we’re friends.

Not in love.

I’m not having visions of white and I’m not hearing wedding bells.

Does anyone hear wedding bells anymore? I’ve been to dozens of weddings—most of them for research, though I don’t crash, I ask in advance and pay for my own meals—and I’ve only heard wedding bells at two of them.

Which isn’t the point.

The point is, I had a sexual encounter with a man whose bed I’m going to sleep in tonight, with him, most likely naked because his house is a million degrees, and I am not falling in love with him.

“Can I—” he starts after he’s stacked the books, and I cut him off with my brightest smile.

“Nope, that’s great. Thank you! I couldn’t have stacked the books so fast without you! You should go get your rest. Big game tomorrow. It’s all over the news that you might make the playoffs for the first time in so long that the people here forgot the playoffs exist. Or would’ve, if Copper Valley didn’t have such an awesome hockey team. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you take care of you so you can be the best center fielder the Fireballs have ever had.”

He stares at me like my top half has turned into a shark or something. “My Nonna would’ve been a better center fielder than most of what the Fireballs have had the last thirty years.”

“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.”