Page 87 of The Holiday Hate-Off
“I guess so,” he says, running a hand across his chin.
“Yeah. I only put it on because it looked really old, and I figured no one wanted it. I didn’t know it was his until someone identified it.”
“Itisold. My mother made that scarf.”
My head whips over to peer at Enzo through the window. He’s arguing with Portia about something in an undertone that can’t be heard through the glass.
He kept his mother’s scarf even though she left them.
He wrapped it around my neck, knowing people would see it.
Worst of all: hisgrandmothersaw me wearing it.
She must know…
Honestly, I don’t even know what there is to know other than that this thing between Enzo and me has gotten very confusing.
I’d hoped Lobster Stalker would answer my note this morning, giving me someone else to focus on—a man who’s compassionate and capable of sharing his feelings—but when I left for the taffy pulling, the card I’d left for him was still sitting out there in the hallway. Ignored.
Maybe he’s a senior citizen who just moved into assisted living.
Regardless, he can hardly compete with the very real, very aggravating, and impossibly beautiful man who’s preparing to pull taffy across from me.
Giovanni is still studying me, I realize, waiting for some kind of response.
I clear my throat. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t unravel the knitting after I found out the scarf was Enzo’s.”
I’d thought about it, to be honest. His texts had been so smug, and I could just imagine the look on his face, his brow raised, the corners of his lips turned up.
Giovanni laughs, shrugging. “I wouldn’t have cared. It’s Enzo who’s sentimental about stuff like that.”
“That doesn’t sound like him at all.”
He shrugs his shoulder. “Sure. Maybe you’re right. I’ve only known him for over thirty years.”
I look away, duly chastised.
“Our condolences,” Charlie says, saving me from answering. She delivers the takedown with a teasing smile, though, and Enzo’s brothers don’t seem offended.
“Thank you,” Giovanni says. “We gratefully accept them. He’s only been home for a few weeks, and he already has us auctioning ourselves off. Changing the schedule at the shop. Switching suppliers. But I can’t complain. He’s been fixing mymistakes since I was too young to understand that I didn’t have to wear the suspenders Nonna gave us.”
My heart throbs as I push the shirt at Giovanni again, willing him to take it before I do something truly insane like pull it on.
“So he was always controlling,” I say in a choked voice.
“Always,” Nico says with a snort. “But he always stood up for us too. There’s a reason we agreed to this insanity.”
He motions to the kitchen window as Portia shoves a Santa hat at Enzo, who takes it with obvious reluctance and puts it on.
Giovanni still hasn’t taken the shirt from me. I don’t offer it again, my fingers squeezing the cloth without permission from my brain.
“Yes, Enzo’s so protective of you three,” Eileen says. I glance over to see she has her phone camera trained at Enzo, taking photos as if she’s a paparazzo. “Ever since you were little.”
That’s right. Eileen was friendly with his mother, and I still haven’t asked her about it. I’d like to ask her now—I have a whole baker’s dozen of questions—but Enzo wouldn’t like that much. For some reason, that matters.
Eileen gets on her toes and takes a photo from a different angle.
I haven’t told her about Nonna Francesca’s visit to the coffee shop to see her about making a match for Enzo, but it’s possible someone else did.
