“Thirty years and counting.” He yawns against my hair.
“What’s their secret?”
He absentmindedly brushes over the short strands at my nape. “Well, besides the fact that my dad still looks at my mom like she’s Morticia Addams.”
“Every woman’s dream, finding her Gomez,” I sigh.
“Who wouldn’t want their own Morticia? But really, I think it’s their dedication. To each other, to their people—Mom to her team, Dad to everyone at Viggle. Our holidays were always full of this chosen family they built.”
“I get that,” I mumble, sleep starting to blur my words. “My family’s the same way, close to our neighbors and friends.”
“But there’s something beautiful about how they fit together. They had this ritual of syncing their calendars every Sunday night. They always prioritized carving out time for each other like it was a game they were intent on winning. I personally think, and forget how this is going to sound”—he pauses dramatically—“it was like foreplay for them.”
“Oh god! Like a love language made of Viggle Calendar invites?” I ask.
“Exactly. They built their life in the spaces between commitments. No phones on vacation, just presence. Just them. They’re different in almost every way. Dad couldn’t dribble a basketball if his life depended on it, Mom still prints out her emails, but they’ve created this beautiful thing together.”
I draw patterns across his chest, quieting the restless stir inside of me. “What if your family thinks I’m too Hollywood?”
He takes hold of my hand. “The woman who spent three hours perfecting a single kick because itdidn’t feel authentic enough, who still tries to twirl her hair weeks after she cut it?”
“Promise to never stop teasing me like this? I think it keeps me grounded.” I never thought I’d find someone who could see through my carefully constructed layers, who’d make me want to be seen. But here he is, making me laugh at myself, making me real.
“As long as you’ll let me.”
“They’ll see what I see,” he murmurs.
“Which is?”
“Someone who makes everything better. Brighter.”
He kisses my head, and I burrow closer, feeling brave. “Come to New Orleans for Christmas?” I whisper. “My mama’s gumbo will change your life, and I know this amazing chef at Hotel Monteleone who does private dinners overlooking the river. Plus,” I add, “I need backup when Aunt Mabel starts her inevitable interrogation about my biological clock.”
“Throwing me to the southern wolves already?”
“Only the ones who make transcendent pie crust.”
“Then I’m yours,” he mumbles, already half asleep.
We lie there a little while longer until his breathing deepens beneath my cheek. I should go back to my cabin, probably.
“Dante?” I whisper. No response.
Instead, I let myself sink deeper into his warmth.
Chapter 39
Dante
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