“George II has seen things,” I agree solemnly.
“George II needs therapy.”
Instead, I try on enormous sunglasses that make me look like a bug from a 1960s sci-fi movie. Dean takes approximately forty pictures, each more ridiculous than the last, laughing the entire time.
“Delete those.” I’m trying to look stern but failing.
“Never. This is blackmail material.” He’s still snapping photos, circling me like a demented photographer.
“For what?”
“Future negotiations.” He pulls me close, his hands settling on my waist as if they belong there. “When you’re being stubborn about something.”
“I’m never stubborn.” I tilt my chin up, defiant.
He just looks at me.
“Okay, rarely stubborn.” I’m wavering under his gaze.
The look continues.
“Shut up.” I swat his chest.
We buy the sunglasses, a leather journal that I can’t resist because of the smell, and a bottle of limoncello because Dean insists we need more. We sit by the harbor, eating gelato—pistachio for him, stracciatella for me. We people-watch, making up elaborate backstories for tourists, pointing out dogs and rating them on a scale from one to Muffin. We argue about whether that building is coral or salmon-colored.
“It’s clearly coral,” I insist, pointing with my gelato spoon.
“That’s salmon. Look at the way the light hits it.” He’s squinting at the building like a serious art critic.
“That’s not how color works.”
“I have excellent color vision. I once won a case based on my ability to distinguish between burgundy and maroon.”
I lower my gelato. “That’s not a thing that happened.”
“It could have happened.” He’s fighting a smile.
“Dean.”
“Fine. But that building is still salmon.”
“You’re salmon.” It’s childish, but I don’t care.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” But he’s laughing.
“Your face doesn’t make sense.”
An elderly Italian woman pauses to stare at us. We’re clearly disturbing the peace with our silly argument. Dean says something to her in his terrible Italian, probably trying to ask her opinion about the building. She pats his cheek like he’s a particularly slow child and continues walking.
“This is fun,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
He turns to me, gelato forgotten. “What?”
“You. Being fun. It’s disconcerting. Like finding out your tax attorney secretly does stand-up.”
“I’m incredibly fun. A delight. A joy to be around. Ask anyone.” He’s using his lawyer voice, making his case.
“You tried to evict me via a Reddit post.” I point my spoon at him accusingly.
