ME: That sounds like my personal hell.
ROMAN: That's because you're an emotional dumpster fire. Come anyway.
ME: I'll think about it.
ROMAN: That's Victor-speak for "yes but I'm going to pretend I'm too cool to commit." I'm telling Nonna you're coming.
ME: SLOW YOUR ROLL
ROMAN: Can’t. Sorry. She's already excited. She saw the wedding video. She thinks you're "molto romantico."
ME: I'm putting the phone down now
ROMAN: Bring Harper. Thursday. Six PM. Don't be late
ROMAN: And bring the girl who made you commit felony assault
He stops responding before I can argue, and I set my phone down and stare at the ocean through the window.
Thanksgiving.
With Roman and Christian and a group of Italian grandmothers who will absolutely ask invasive questions about my personal life.
Normally, at a time like this, I’d rather set myself on fire.
But the idea of Harper there—meeting my friends, charming Nonna the way she charmed Babushka?—
"Morning."
I turn around, heart thundering when I notice that Harper is standing in the galley doorway wearing my dress shirt from last night.
Just my shirt.
It hits her mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up, the collar open enough to show the hollow of her throat. Her golden-brown hair is messy from sleep, her face makeup-free as she squints slightly in the morning light.
And she looks so damn beautiful it nearly hurts to look at her.
I turn my attention back to the coffee maker, clearing my throat.
"That's my shirt," I hear myself say.
"I know. I borrowed it." She walks to the coffee maker, completely unbothered by the fact that she's half-naked in my presence. "My dress from last night is basically a crime scene. Wrinkled beyond recognition. This was hanging on the back of your door."
"You went into my cabin?"
"The door was open. I figured you were already up." She pours herself coffee, adding cream and sugar. "Was I wrong?"
"No. I've been up since six."
"Couldn't sleep?"
"Not particularly."
She takes a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of her mug. "Me neither."
We stare at each other.
The galley suddenly feels way too damn small, too intimate. Doesn’t help that Harper is looking absolutely delectable while wearing my shirt with nothing underneath, and I'm trying very hard to be the gentleman I said I’d be last night.
