CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
There really was a nonni, and she lived in a sweet little two-story home tucked away on a tree-lined street three blocks over from Gannon’s apartment. Short and soft around the middle, she had snowy white hair that framed her lined face like a cloud. Her eyes, a tawny brown, held a sharpness that didn’t miss much.
“It’s about time,” she said, frowning fiercely at Gannon as she looked up from the sauce that clouded the room with the mouthwatering scents of garlic and basil. “The canapés have been ready for hours.”
Gannon was unaffected by her bluster. “I left you fifty minutes ago,” he said, dropping a kiss on her papery cheek and sneaking a crispy piece of bruschetta off of the silver tray.
She slapped at his hand in mock anger. “Where my daughter went wrong with this one, I’ll never know,” she sighed, feigning disbelief.
Gannon grinned down at her with affection. Paige caught the teasing wink Nonni sent him before she reached for Paige.
“Since my grandson has never had any manners, I am Francesca Bianchi, Gannon’s mama’s mama.” She drew Paige into a fierce hug and released her just as quickly.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bianchi.”
“Francesca, please, or Nonni,” she tut-tutted. “Dinner will be ready in half an hour. You both will take the wine and canapés outside and get out of my way.”
Gannon took the decanter of cabernet that Francesca left breathing on the counter and poured a healthy portion into a glass for his grandmother before scooping up the other two glasses. He nudged the tray of bruschetta at Paige and led the way out the back door onto a covered porch overlooking a garden-like oasis of a backyard.
“I love your grandmother’s house,” Paige confessed as Gannon set the glasses down on a pine table between two cushioned chairs. It looked like what every grandmother’s house should. Lived in for decades, the house had aged well, every room looking comfortable with the kind of dated furniture and rugs that had held more memories than style. “When did you redo her kitchen?”
Unlike the rest of the home, the kitchen gleamed in its modernity. A six-burner gas stove dominated one wall under a copper hood and pot filler. The countertops, acres of them, were creamy, speckled granite. A mixture of glass-fronted and traditional cabinetry in warm cherry offered huge amounts of storage.
It had Gannon’s fingerprints all over it.
“Last year. She’d had a rough two years with Grandpa passing and the trouble with the business. As soon as we had a commitment for a second season, Cat and I conned her with a ten-day cruise with my parents and my aunt and uncle.”
“The network would have loved that as a special,” Paige said, lifting the glass and tasting the very nice wine.
“Which is exactly why we didn’t tell them about it,” Gannon said. “She cried when she saw it. We all did.”
She could see it. The gratitude, the pride, the overwhelming love. And wished she’d been there to witness it.
“That must have been a memorable reveal.”
“Speaking of,” Gannon leaned against the railing, his back to the riot of foliage spilling from raised beds and containers. “Let’s talk about your new opportunity.”
Back to business, she thought. It was probably wise. Being around him like this stirred up feelings, ones she didn’t have an interest in feeling anymore.
“Okay, let’s talk.”
“How would you feel about directing a special?”
“Directing?” Paige gripped her wine glass. “I wouldn’t be a field producer or an assistant director.”
Gannon shook his head. “Nope. Director. About three or four months of shooting.”
“Where? For who?”
“Here in the city for Welcome Home. But you’d be calling the shots,” he said when he saw her face fall. “They wouldn’t be able to mess with you on this one.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s my show.”
She was already shaking her head.
“Don’t say no yet. Just listen.”
She raised a judgmental eyebrow. “Gannon—”
“Shut up and listen.” He said it without any heat. “I bought a place—a house. I’ll be renovating it anyway, and the network was salivating about turning it into a special to air this summer. Probably five or six episodes.”
“I don’t have any experience directing,” she reminded him. Which was bullshit. She could do it. She just didn’t know if her heart could take it being around him day after day again. How could she not fall for him all over again?
“Bullshit,” Gannon said as if reading her mind. He picked up another slice of bruschetta, popping it in his mouth. “Just because you haven’t held the title doesn’t mean you don’t have the experience.”
She sipped, considered.
“You’d pick the crew.
“Why me?” she asked. If he said it was because he wanted her back in his life, she would put down this very nice wine, say a polite good-bye to Francesca, and be on her way.
“This is going to be my home. I want someone I trust behind the camera. I don’t want to turn this into some dog and pony show. This is what I’ve been working toward for a long time, and I’m not letting anyone come in and fuck up the process, the feel of it for me. I want you.”
She blew out a breath. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to work together. It didn’t exactly go well last time.”
He ran a hand impatiently through his hair. “Princess, this is a big deal to me. I trust you to put something together that doesn’t violate me in the process, and this keeps you off the streets begging for shit jobs.”
“I don’t want a pity job.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s not your style.”
She didn’t bother taking offense to his brusqueness. She was used to it. She was used to him… well, working with him. But working together again? Memories of the past few months rolled through her like a cresting wave. Dark hotel rooms, longing glances, breathless kisses. She wouldn’t survive that again.
“It pays a little better than what you were making before.” Gannon gave her the number, and Paige gave herself credit when she didn’t bobble her glass. With that money, the documentary would be a go. She wouldn’t need Kings for another season. Another season of torture. Shirtless Gannon, on camera interviews, toeing the line of humiliation.
Her thoughts swirled. “Gannon—”
“Don’t say no now. Think about it. Have dinner, listen to Nonni tell embarrassing stories about me, and sleep on it.”
The subject was closed. For now.
Paige looked out over the darkening garden. “I owe you an apology.”
His eyes gleamed in the dusk. “Why?” The question was quiet, husky.
“I didn’t believe that Nonni existed.”
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They ate in the dining room off of Francesca’s wedding china. Between forkfuls of the best chicken cacciatore that Paige had ever had, they talked. Gannon and Francesca fired stories and memories back and forth at each other while Paige laughed and drank wine and listened.
Francesca daintily wiped tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes with her cloth napkin. “What about you, Paige? Do you have memories of your grandmamas like this one does?”
“I never knew any of my grandparents,” Paige confessed. “They all died before or shortly after I was born. It was just my mother and sister and me.”
“That sounds like a house that is too quiet,” Francesca said, eyeing her.
“My mother valued peace and quiet for our… educational pursuits,” Paige said, remembering endless hours of private piano lessons, French classes. She’d counted down the hours until she was sprung free of endless instruction, preferring to sneak off to the movies or hide with paperbacks in the back of her closet where she could read without interruption. Meanwhile, her sister Lisa had embraced the barrage of education.
“Family is important,” Francesca lectured. “Do you like children?” The hawkish look she sent Paige had her covering a laugh with her napkin.
“Uh, I suppose?”
Gannon frowned at his grandmother. “Nonni,” he said, his tone carrying a warning.
Francesca smiled innocently. “I’m only asking a question.”
“Why aren’t you asking her where she likes to vacation or what books she likes to read?” He stabbed at a piece of chicken.
“Bah! I like to ask questions that get to the heart of a person,” Francesca insisted. “What would I know about Paige’s heart if she says she likes the beach or autobiographies? I want to know who she is in here.” She pointed a gnarled finger at her own heart.
Paige smiled. Francesca Bianchi was a woman she could understand.
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Paige felt nerves vibrate over her skin. It was dark and the air cool by the time Gannon pulled up in front of her apartment building. It wasn’t the end of a date but, to her anxiety level, it felt like one. Only she knew exactly what it would feel like if he leaned over and laid those warm, hard lips on her, spread those callused hands over her.
That awareness of memory, of anticipation, crawled through her veins until she was desperate for air, for space.
She wanted to speak. To thank him for dinner and introducing her to his grandmother and then slide out of the truck and forget about the evening. Or did she want those lips and hands cruising over her until she was desperate for more?
Finally, it was Gannon who spoke. “Promise me you’ll think about the offer.”
Still she was silent, weighing words and consequences.
“Paige. Promise me.”
“I promise.” The words left her mouth on a reluctant sigh.
He was watching her, and the cab of the truck felt small, confined. The air was too warm inside. There wasn’t much protecting her from his raw appeal. Nothing but the console that divided the front seat.
“Thank you for dinner. I loved Francesca,” Paige breathed out, keeping her tone light.
“She’s the center of our entire family,” Gannon said, a half-smile on his shadowed face.
“It must have been very hard to lose your grandfather.”
His hand skimmed over hers where it rested on her leg, squeezed. “It was a nightmare,” he admitted. “No one’s ever ready to say goodbye but especially not us Kings.”
“I imagine he’d be very proud of you, Gannon.”
He squeezed her hand again and then released it. “Thanks. That means… a lot.”
She took a deep breath. “Listen. Whether or not I take this job, thank you for the opportunity.”
He looked like he wanted to say something, was fighting the urge to say it.
“Now who’s censoring themselves,” she teased lightly.
“Take the job, Paige. I won’t hurt you again.”