“Yeah?”
“If you ever tell me to ‘be careful’ again instead of how you actually feel, I’m getting a restraining order.”
“Fair.”
“And moving George into your living room.”
“Absolutely not.” The words are automatic.
She raises an eyebrow, and I see my future flash before my eyes. A future that definitely involves a goat in my living room.
“Fine. For a supervised visit,” I concede, since I’m pretty sure I’d agree to just about anything right now. World peace. Skydiving.
“Deal.” She pulls me inside, her smile turning wicked. “Now stop negotiating and kiss me like you mean it.”
So I do.
And for the first time in my extremely careful life, I mean every reckless second of it.
Chapter Thirty-Three
No More Pretending
Poppy
He looks exhausted.
Good.
He should be exhausted. Should’ve lost sleep. Should’ve suffered like I’ve suffered in this stupid perfect villa with its stupid perfect views and its stupid perfect emptiness.
But also—
He’s here. Actually here. In Portofino looking wrecked and uncertain and holding my earring like it’s precious.
“Mine,” he says again, and I’m gone.
Done pretending I haven’t been dying without him. Done acting like four days wasn’t enough to rewire my entire existence.
His hands are everywhere. My waist. My hair. The curve of my hip where linen meets skin.
“Missed you,” he breathes against my neck. “So much.”
“Show me.”
And he does.
He backs me against the wall and kisses me like he’s trying to make up for lost time. For stupid goodbyes. For every moment we’ve been apart.
“The bedroom’s—”
“Don’t care.”
“Dean—”
“Here.” His voice is rough. Desperate. “Need you here. Now. Can’t—”
I get it. The urgency. The fear that if we move, if we think, if we do anything but this, one of us might remember why this is crazy.
