Page 25 of Sincerely Not Yours

Gigi cocked her head. Her brow creased. “Are you referring to me?”

“Of course.” Why did she act like she never got complimented? Was that even possible? “The ideas you come up with forSheTime are so creative. The products, marketing, all the planning and details for events.”

She smiled. Softly, like she was allowing his words to sink in. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harris was about to expand his compliments, but got distracted by how the flickering flames reflected and danced in Gigi’s vibrant eyes. She radiated in the fire’s golden glow, her cheeks still tinged with a rosy hue. And when she batted her long eyelashes, a droplet hit her cheek—melting remnants from the storm. It trickled like a tear, and Harris had a strong urge to brush it away. His fingers curled, reacting.

With a nervous laugh, Gigi brushed a hand across her cheek, erasing the droplet and the moment. “I think my eyelashes are unthawing.”

Harris chuckled, mostly at himself. What was he doing? “I think we just walked through the storm of the year.” His attention went back to the orange flames. “We had a long, but successful day. I think we should celebrate. Are you a wine drinker?”

Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, yes.”

“Pinot Noir? Cabernet? Or do you prefer white?”

“Red, white, rose, bubbles. I don’t discriminate.”

He huffed a laugh. “Perfect. I’ll get us a bottle and grab Rudy from my bedroom. Then I can scrounge up some dinner. Though I’m going to apologize in advance. My kitchen was not prepared for company. I’m a little light on options.”

Looking excited by this comment, Gigi popped up on her toes and pivoted like a ballerina. “I’ve got just the thing,” she said, walking toward the foyer.

He watched her, confused. “You have something for dinner?”

A few seconds later, Gigi made her way back to him. Her tote bag was slung on her shoulder, and she was digging through it.“I went to the farmer’s market this morning, before going to the conference hall. I’ve got veggies, orzo, chicken bouillon, and a wedge of parmesan.” She pulled out a handful of leafy orange carrots, proving her point. “I can make us Italian Penicillin!”

He tipped his head, intrigued and concerned.

“It’s my grandma’s recipe. Don’t worry. It’s soup, not medicine.” Gigi bounced with a giggle. “But it will definitely make you feel better if you’re sick. My grandma makes it for me anytime I’m not feeling well. Can I make it for you? As a thank you for saving me from the storm?”

The wind, sleet, and snow rattled against the front windows and Harris was thankful for the disaster outside. Otherwise, he’d be standing in his kitchen alone, wondering how far past the expiration date his milk was and if he could use it to make mac and cheese. Worse, he’d be wondering all that without Gigi. “Can I be your sous chef? You’re a guest at my home. I can’t in good conscience have you wait on me.”

She shrugged, her eyes bright. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

Harris showed Gigi to the kitchen, which was toward the back of the house, and opened up into his living room. “I’ll be back in a minute. Feel free to poke around wherever you like.” He jogged upstairs and swooped Rudy out of his kennel, kissing him on his tiny, hairy head. Then he ducked into the library to grab a bottle of his best pinot noir—a bottle he’d picked up a few years back on an impromptu trip to France. He’d been saving it for a special occasion. Being stuck in a snowstorm making soup with Gigi felt like the right time to break it open.

By the time Harris arrived back in the kitchen, Gigi had all the veggies and ingredients splayed across the kitchen island. She’d also found the big wooden cutting board, a knife, and a peeler.

“There’s my little cutie pie!” Gigi squeezed her hands to her chest, barely containing her excitement as she rushed over to Harris, going straight for Rudy. For a second, he pictured hergreeting him the same way after a long day at work. Ignoring the fleeting thought, Harris offered the meowing kitten, and Gigi cradled him in her arms, like a baby. She scratched his belly, quieting his mews. He raised his white-socked paws to her face.

“I think you might like a little chicken broth,” she cooed to Rudy. “I’ll warm you up a little bowl after I make the soup. It will warm your tummy.”

Harris grinned, leaving the two to snuggle as he opened the wine. “So, tell me about this recipe of yours.” He retrieved two wide-bowled pinot noir glasses from a cabinet. “Your grandma taught you how to make it?”

“Yes—my Nonna. That’s Italian for grandmother and what I’ve always called her.” She gave Rudy one more squeeze before setting him down. He immediately pounced on one of his catnip toys. The little bell attached to the ball jingled. “We cook together a lot. She’s taught me everything I know about Italian food and cooking.”

Harris began filling their glasses. “Have you cooked with her since you were a kid?” He pictured Gigi running around her grandma’s kitchen in a tiny apron, spreading cheer and a cloud of flour.

“Actually, I didn’t meet my Nonna until I was in my twenties.”

The image in Harris’s head popped. He paused before filling the second glass. “Oh?” he replied, allowing Gigi to expand only if she felt comfortable.

“I think I mentioned in the carriage ride that my mother raised my sister and me by herself.” Her words were timid, like she needed to remind him of that conversation, as if he might have forgotten what she’d shared with him. He hadn’t. He remembered every word. “I didn’t grow up with my dad. He left when I was little. But I’d always been curious about him. My sister and I had some communication with him when we were teenagers and found out he lived in Chicago.”

Harris set the wine bottle on the counter. “Is that why you came here?”

She nodded, but hurt flashed across her face. Harris’s whole chest tightened, and he wanted to hunt her father down and give him a piece of his mind.

“It is,” Gigi confirmed before moving to the kitchen sink. She pushed up her sweater sleeves and washed her hands. When she turned off the faucet, the hurt had dissipated from her beautiful features. “He’s why I moved here, but not why I stayed. We don’t really talk much anymore.”

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