Page 34 of Sincerely Not Yours

Gigi squinted, looking entertained by his sarcasm. “No, really. What would it be?”

“The Great Gatsby. F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

She tipped her head, her silky hair falling to one shoulder. “Interesting.”

“How so?”

“Why is it your favorite?” She was analyzing him in ways he wished he could put words to. Before he could respond, she added, “For its exploration of the American dream and unrequited love?”

Harris froze, locking in on her, immediately wanting to pick her brain about the story and its themes. Was that the hottest thing he’d ever heard? “Yes,” he uttered. It was the only word he got out.

Gigi tapped her chin and pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Very interesting.”

“It’s also my favorite because of the themes of love and loss. The exploration of the illusion of success. The complexcharacters and relationships. It’s poetic and symbolic. I get something new out of the story every time I read it.”

She bit her fingernail, looking intrigued by his comments. “That’s because you’ve lived more life every time you reread it. You’ve grown. The story resonates differently at different times of your life.”

“So true,” he said, captivated by her insights.

“I always thought the love story inThe Great Gatsbywas so haunting. Gatsby’s obsession with Daisy, the lengths he goes to for her . . . it’s heartbreaking.” Her fingers brushed his hand, ever so briefly, forcing something low in his stomach to melt.

“It is,” Harris agreed. “But it’s not just about their love. It’s also about how Gatsby’s idealized vision of Daisy and the past ruins him.”

Gigi sighed softly, her eyes flickering with understanding. “It’s a bittersweet story. The way he builds his whole life around a dream, only to see it crumble.”

“Tragic,” Harris added, watching her closely, thoroughly enjoying their back-and-forth commentary. It had his mind buzzing. The surrounding bar hummed with activity, but Harris felt as if they were in their own little world, peeling away the layers and lessons of a story he held close.

The host’s voice broke the spell, announcing the countdown to the next question. Gigi glanced at her phone and then back at Harris, a playful glint in her eyes. “Ready for the next round?”

Harris grinned, hoping there were a thousand questions in this game. “Absolutely. Let’s win that Crock-Pot.”

“Which Italian dish is traditionally made with arborio rice, broth, and saffron?” the host asked over the speakers. Gigi replied in less than a second.

“Risotto alla Milanese.” She spoke with confidence, her fingers flying to select the answer. Her phone screen went green, confirming she was correct.

Harris raised an eyebrow, impressed. “Wow. You really know your Italian food. Though I shouldn’t be surprised after the unbelievable soup you whipped up out of her purse.”

“It was a tote bag.” Gigi chuckled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Nonna taught me to be resourceful.”

“You kept us fed through the biggest snowstorm of the season. Very well fed. Now I dream of Italian Penicillin.” And of evenings in the kitchen with Gigi.

“I love to cook. It’s my way of showing love and making people happy.” Their gazes locked and Gigi’s cheeks reddened. Had she just insinuated love for him? Harris mulled it over, wondering if it was a slip of the tongue, or if there’d been some truth to it. Not that he thought she loved him, but he hoped she cared. Because he cared for her. Maybe more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re an amazing cook,” he said, breaking the awkward silence.

“Thank you.” Gigi smiled bashfully. “I probably shouldn’t tell this to my boss, but if I could make a living out of cooking, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” She picked up her mug, cupping it with both hands and holding it just below her mouth.

“What would you do?” Harris urged, leaning an inch closer, genuinely intrigued. “Start a restaurant? Sell at farmer’s markets?”

Gigi took a sip of her hot toddy, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve thought about starting a food delivery service. Imagine sending a package of homemade Italian goodness to a loved one when they were sick or just because—like sending flowers, but tastier.”

Harris grinned. “I love that idea.”

She thrummed her fingers on her mug. “I’d cook up all kinds of goodies. Comfort foods. Desserts. Chicken parmigiana, risotto, lasagna. Cannoli and panna cotta. And, of course, Italian Penicillin.”

“Of course. You can’t forget the Penicillin. It’s the cure-all and should be the staple in your offering.” His stomach growled at the thought. “Why don’t you do it? You could combine your love of cooking with your marketing skills. You’d be unstoppable.”

Gigi chuckled, a hint of shyness in her laugh. “Thanks. It’s just a dream for now.”

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