“Like the water in Portofino?” He says it softly, close to my ear.
I turn in his arms, surprised. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything.” His voice drops, intimate. “The dress you wore. How you laughed when I accidentally ordered six pizzas.”
“You are so bad at Italian.” I’m smiling at the memory.
“I was nervous.” The admission comes quiet, almost shy.
“Dean Whitaker doesn’t get nervous,” I tease gently.
“Dean Whitaker wasn’t in love before.”
The words hang between us. It’s the first time he’s said it, just dropped it casually, like it’s a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and Dean Whitaker is in love with me.
My breath catches, my heart hammering. “Dean—”
“I know. It’s too much. Too fast. Too—” He’s rambling now, clearly nervous.
“Perfect,” I interrupt, pressing my fingers to his lips. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. We’re perfectly insane, and I love you too.”
His face does something adorable—shock, joy, and relief all at once. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you emotional disaster. I love you. Why else would I be moving three thousand miles?” I’m grinning so wide my face hurts.
“My sparkling personality? My excellent taste in dogs?” He’s trying to sound casual but is failing completely.
“Muffin chose you, not the other way around.” I poke his chest.
“Details.” He kisses me. Soft. Then not soft. Then desperate, like he needs to prove this is real. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” The words come easier this time.
“Again.” His hands are in my hair now, holding me close.
“I love you, you controlling—”
He silences me in the best way. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and Muffin is judging us from her bed.
“Three weeks,” he says against my lips. “Then you’re here. In our house. In our bed. Planning weddings for people who aren’t us.”
“About that—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“No.” His tone is firm and immediate.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” I pull back, feeling indignant.
“You were going to make a joke about our wedding. I’m not ready for jokes about our wedding.” But his ears are turning pink.
“But you’re ready to think about our wedding?” I latch onto that detail like a lifeline.
His ears grow even pinker. “Shut up.”
“Oh my God. You’ve thought about it. Dean Whitaker has thought about marrying me.” I’m delighted, practically bouncing.
“I’m leaving.” He tries to step away, but I hold on.
“You live here.” I tighten my grip on his shirt.
