Grateful (2 page)

And just as I was thinking these deep thoughts, my brain caught on something like fabric snagging on a splinter.

Wait. Gift cards?

Oh shit.

I hopped out of the car, zoomed around to the back, and popped the trunk. I dug frantically through my suitcase, tossing shirts and underwear and socks everywhere—but there were no little envelopes with my relatives’ names scrawled on them. No little bits of plastic promising bounty at Amazon, Home Depot, Target, The Cheesecake Factory, or iTunes.

I could drive back home to get them, but that would add at least three hours to my journey. And then I’d have to explain to my parents why I was so late, and I’d become the butt of yet more eye rolls and tired jokes. Screw that. Or I could show up empty-handed and feel like an asshole every time I opened a gift lovingly chosen for me by one of my family members. Screw that too.

Feeling exhausted by life in general and thoroughly tired of myself, I leaned back against the car and closed my eyes.

When I opened them again, a man was staring at me. And, oh, what a man he was! His glossy black hair framed an oval face with huge brown eyes, a Roman nose, lush lips, and sculpted cheekbones. He had the precise amount of stubble to appear sexy and slightly reckless. He wore a slim-cut black shirt with blood-red trim and outsized black buttons. It hugged his toned body, as did his dark trousers. Add a fluttering cape and remove the sunlight, and he could have passed for a broody movie vampire. Yet somehow he managed to look natural instead of costumed.

Oh, and the crowning touch? He held a leash, at the end of which was an enormous dog with a regal bearing and fur the same shiny black as the man’s hair.

“Are you all right?” the man asked. He had the faintest hint of an accent.

I think I tried to say several things at once, so all that came out of my mouth was a mangled blob of vowels and consonants.

This apparently added to the guy’s concern. His strong brows drew together, and he took a step closer. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I managed to blurt, more or less coherently. My recent angst was forgotten, replaced by a surge of knee-weakening lust. If I were a cartoon character, my eyes would be bugging out and my tongue hanging down to the asphalt. “I’m just an idiot,” I added, because I was.

His frown relaxed. “You looked… distressed.”

I remembered that my face was all messed up. If he was Dracula, I was doing a damned good impression of Frankenstein’s monster. I sighed. “I had a bike accident.” Which was, strictly speaking, true. He didn’t need to know that the bike in question had three wheels and belonged to a kindergartner.

“Cycling or motor?”

“Um, cycling.”

He nodded sagely. “Yeah, that sport can mess you up. I wiped out once during a race in Iowa. Wrecked my Kestrel and dislocated my shoulder.”

I hoped that a Kestrel was a bicycle brand and not an important portion of his anatomy. “That sucks,” I said, picturing him in tight spandex biking gear. Did he have helmet hair after a ride, or was he too magically awesome to suffer through that?

“It happens. Do you ride around here?”

“Um, no. Bay Area.”

“Cool.” The guy showed no interest in leaving, which would have been great if I wasn’t such a mess. “What kind of bike do you ride?”

I sighed, and unable to maintain the charade any longer, I answered. “Tricycle.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t ride in races, okay? A friend sort of dared me to ride a kid’s trike down a hill, so I did.”

I expected him to scoff at least, or more likely write me off as nuts and walk away. Instead, he threw back his head and laughed. Not in a mean sort of way; more like he thought I was truly funny. His dog wagged its tail and gave me a canine grin. I noticed that the guy’s teeth were even sparklier than Erik Estrada’s. “Seriously?” he said, still chuckling. “You did that?”

“You can see the results. And I had to give the kid’s parents money to replace the trike.”

“Wow. No wonder you were looking so bummed. But, man, the ride must’ve been glorious while it lasted.”

I found myself smiling at him. “It was. Anyway, that’s not my immediate problem.”

He moved a couple of steps closer, which apparently cued his dog that we should be friends. It pranced up and plopped its wide butt onto my foot—the sore one, of course—and looked up at me, clearly expecting a pat.

I rubbed its ear.

And then the man came even nearer, and I decided that if he sat on me, I’d rub his ear too. But he didn’t sit. “Sorry about Libby,” he said, indicating the dog. “She’s kind of a slut.”

“She’s, um, pretty. And very heavy.”

“She won Best of Breed yesterday. One more major and she’ll have a championship. That’s probably why she’s looking so pleased with herself today. Well, and I just fed her a hamburger. She knows she’s a good girl.”

Her tail thumped against my leg, and I scritched her some more. Her fur was really soft.

The guy reached over to pet her too—her head was big enough for both of us—and his little finger brushed mine. When I didn’t freak out, his grin reappeared. “So, what
is
your immediate problem?” He looked pointedly at the unpacked mess in my trunk.

“Tonight’s the first night of Hanukkah.”

“Uh, mazel tov. Or condolences, as the case may be.”

Did I tell you about his voice? Deep and rumbly. I wanted to lean up against him and feel his chest vibrate as he talked. But I didn’t. “Condolences, I guess. I just realized I left everyone’s presents home, and I don’t have time to go back and get them.”

“Don’t you have seven more days? That should be enough time, right?”

It would have been if I wasn’t related to a bunch of impatient people. “We open everything the first night. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. You probably thought I was having a medical crisis and you were trying to be a good Samaritan, but I’m actually just a fuck-up.”

“If you want the truth, mostly I just thought you were cute. I hoped I’d get to solve all your problems, you’d be grateful, and then we’d get to go out.”

I will never, ever be that dashing and confident. Of course, I’m not anywhere near as good-looking as him—not even when my face is its normal shape and color—and I don’t have a dashing wardrobe or an almost-champion dog. But he’d called me cute.

“How could we go out? Iowa’s a long way away.”

He laughed. “I don’t live in Iowa. I’m in Carmichael. You?”

“Mountain View.”

“I’m way closer than Iowa,” he said.

Which was true. Carmichael’s really close to my parents, actually, and the fact that he lived there indicated that he was probably fairly well-off. Handsome, suave, and affluent—way out of my league. But he was definitely flirting with me now, his hand resting against mine on Libby’s head. His fingers were long and elegant. God, in addition to showing dogs and bike racing, he was probably a concert pianist.

“Where’s the Hanukkah celebration?”

“Rancho Cordova.”

“Right next door! It’s nice to meet you, neighbor. I’m Giovanni DiPietro. Gio.” Of course his ethnic name was infinitely sexier than
my
ethnic name.

“Nate Roth,” I admitted.

“I have a proposition for you, Nate Roth.” He waggled his thick, nicely groomed eyebrows. “Actually, it’s my original plan. I’m going to solve your problems—”

“And I’ll be grateful.”

Gio beamed. “Precisely.”

I don’t know why he thought he had to try so hard just to get me on a date. But I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. A gift horse who claimed he could solve my gift dilemma. “Do you have psychic powers that will allow you to instantly teleport the presents from my house to my car?”

“Sadly, no. My solution is more pedestrian. How many days are you spending in Rancho Cordova?”

“Four nights.” That was my mother’s command. She wanted quality time with her younger son, she said, not a quickie stopover.

“Perfect. Now you’re going into the convenience store”—he motioned at the multipurpose building—“and finding your people the most appropriate things you can. And while you do that, I will charm the people at Subway and McDonalds out of sandwich papers, which you will use to wrap whatever you buy. You’ll give these gifts to everyone tonight, telling them you want to start a new tradition in which everyone waits until the last night of Hanukkah to open their final gifts. And when you get home, you’ll send everything to them priority mail. Voila.”

I was fairly certain my family wouldn’t buy this explanation, but Gio’s plans beat any of mine. At least my relatives would know I’d been thinking of them. “Okay.”

Gio looked as if someone had given
him
a gift.

I patted Libby one more time before he dragged her off to the fancy motorhome parked nearby. I guess you needed a big vehicle if your dog was the size of a pony. While he urged her inside, closed and locked the door, and returned at a trot, I shoved everything back into my suitcase and closed the trunk.

“She won’t be too cold?” I asked.

“Her ancestors were bred to swim in icy Canadian waters. She can handle a California December.”

We walked together toward the building—him striding gracefully, me limping along. The inside food court smelled like french fries and floor cleaner, and quite a few people were lined up at the fast food counters or seated at plastic tables, stuffing their faces. A few of them stared at us. I suppose we made quite a duo: the Italian demigod and the schlumpy guy with the swollen face.

Gio pointed at the convenience store. “Go shop. I’ll meet you in a few.”

I followed orders, picking up a plastic shopping basket as I went. I wandered up and down a couple of aisles before standing hopelessly in front of a display of motor oil. I didn’t have a clue where to start.

Luckily, Gio came to my rescue, clutching a thick stack of logo-emblazoned paper in one hand. He glanced at the empty basket. “Nothing caught your eye?”

“I suck at this. You know what I got everyone and forgot at home? Gift cards. Hey. Maybe I’ll just buy more now.” Because Mom and Dad were surely dying to eat a lot of meals at Taco Bell.

“No, come on. We can do better than that. Tell me about the people you need to shop for.”

And I did. I described my parents, my brother and sister, my in-laws and nieces. I would have thought Gio would grow bored quickly—my relatives aren’t all that fascinating—but he listened carefully, asking questions now and then. And then he helped me choose items that were oddly perfect for each person.

“You’re really good at this,” I said when my basket was full. “Are you, like, a personal shopper or something?”

His laugh was the sexiest thing I’d ever heard. “No, not exactly. I’m a translator. Technical manuals and websites mostly, but sometimes government documents.”

That wasn’t what I’d expected. I blinked at him. “Italian?”

“
Sì
. Also Spanish and Portuguese. And I can translate
from
German into any of those languages or English, but not the other way around. My German’s not good enough.”

“You speak five languages?” I could manage enough Spanish to order from a taco truck, and thinking back to my initial speechlessness with Gio, even English sometimes failed me entirely.

He shrugged as if it was no big deal. “My parents are diplomats. I didn’t have much choice in the matter. C’mon. We have some wrapping to do.”

I might have wondered why he brushed so quickly past the mention of his own family after listening to me blather on about mine, but he didn’t give me a chance. He grabbed the basket and led the way to the cash register, pausing only to snag a roll of tape.

“I can carry my own crap,” I protested as I shuffled after him.

“You have battle wounds. Let me.”

Since I didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter, I obeyed. After I paid and the amused salesclerk stuffed everything into bags, Gio insisted on carrying those too.

“Want help wrapping?” he asked as we crossed the parking lot again. “It’s going to be a challenge with your cast.”

Actually, both my hands were fairly operational, but I didn’t say so. “I’d love some help.”

When we entered the motorhome, Libby seemed thrilled to have a visitor. She thunked her long, plumy tail against everything, and she gave my thigh a friendly bash with the side of her head. Then she settled down on the bed to watch as we laid my purchases onto the table.

“This is a nice setup,” I observed with a touch of jealousy. I camped rarely, but when I did, I was prone to unfortunate incidents—most recently I’d pitched a tent in a patch of poison oak.

“It works well for going to shows. I don’t have to stuff poor Libby into my Jag, and I don’t have to find hotels that accept pets. It’s not like I can smuggle Libby in, undetected.”

Although I nodded, I was stuck on the Jag part. I drive a Nissan, a perfectly nice car, except for the scrape near the rear bumper due to a recent misjudgment. And the small dent in the hood. I have cool Darth Vader seat covers, but my ride is by no means a sleek British sports car. I concluded that translating must pay better than I thought.

We wrapped quietly for several minutes, Gio grinning the entire time, as if he was having the time of his life. He did most of the folding and taping, and I wrote the recipients’ names using a black Sharpie he lent me.

After we were done, Gio carefully slid the gifts back into the bags.

“There,” he announced happily, spreading his arms. “I have solved your problem. Your family will be thrilled. Now you can be grateful.”

What I wanted was to rush into those arms, feel the hard lines of his body against mine, snuffle into his neck, and get high off the scent of his cologne, which had been driving me crazy since we entered the RV. Instead, I bit my lip and looked down at the floor. “What’s the deal, Gio?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…. You’re positively practically perfect. I bet you could get just about any guy you wanted—even the ones who think they’re straight, if you put some effort into it. And I’m just me. Why put so much effort into
me
?”