Tonight, we have this. Pizza and laughter and skin against skin. No promises except the ones our bodies make. No plans except to wake up together and see what happens next.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
It’s enough.
For now.
Chapter Thirty-Five
When in Portofino
Poppy
I wake up to Dean cursing in Italian.
Not good Italian. Terrible, American, possibly just made-up Italian.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out scratchy. Everything is sore in the best way possible.
He’s standing at the window in his boxers, glaring at something outside. Morning light hits the planes of his back, highlighting scratches I definitely left there.
“There’s a goat.”
I bolt upright, the sheet pooling around my waist. “What?”
“A freaking goat. On the terrace. Eating the...” He squints. “I think those were roses.”
“You’re hallucinating.” But I’m already scrambling out of bed.
“Come look.”
I wrap the sheet around myself and pad over. Sure enough, there’s a white goat on the terrace, methodically destroying what was probably a very expensive flower arrangement.
“Oh my gosh.”
“It’s like George followed us.” He sounds personally offended, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Is this my life now? Stalker goats?”
The goat looks up, makes direct eye contact with Dean, and knocks over a potted lemon tree.
“I think he’s establishing dominance,” I say, biting back a laugh.
“I’m going out there.” He’s already moving toward the door.
“Dean, no—”
But he’s already sliding open the door, marching out in his boxers like some kind of deranged warrior. The goat bleats. Dean points at it with the authority of someone used to winning arguments.
“No. Bad goat. Drop the... whatever that is.”
The goat eats faster, chewing with vindictive pleasure.
“I’m serious. I flew four thousand miles to get away from this.”
I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe, clutching the doorframe for support. “Please stop arguing with the goat.”
“He started it!” Dean’s voice rises, incredulous.
