The words hang there. Love. Not quite said but absolutely felt.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I really do.”
And then we’re kissing again, and talking becomes impossible, and somewhere in Italy a goat is probably plotting our demise, but I don’t care.
Because she said yes.
To option two.
To crazy.
To us.
“We’re really doing this,” she says.
We’re back in bed. Exhausted. Sticky. Stupidly happy.
“We’re really doing this.”
“I need to give notice on my apartment.”
“I need to clean out my closet. Make space.”
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
I think about it. Really think about it. What if she hates New York? What if we drive each other crazy? What if this thing between us burns too hot and flames out?
“Then we’ll figure that out too,” I say finally. “But Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
She props up on an elbow. “No?”
“No.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. “Because you’re it for me. Whatever that means, however that looks. You’re it.”
“You can’t just say things like—”
“Watch me.”
She kisses me. Soft and sure and full of promise.
“For the record,” she says against my lips, “you’re it for me too.”
“Good.” I pull her back down. “Now stop talking. We have a whole life to plan.”
“I thought logistics could wait.”
“Changed my mind. Tell me about your California clients.”
And she does. Talks for an hour about her business, her dreams, her plans. I listen and plot and picture her taking over Manhattan one wedding at a time.
Option two.
