“It’s just arborio rice and—”
“Take the compliment.”
He pauses. “Thank you.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
“Excruciating, actually.” But he’s almost smiling. This lazy, tiny thing at the corner of his mouth that makes my chest do weird stuff.
“So Poppy,” Ivy says, pouring me a glass of white wine. “Tell us about Italy.”
Safe topic. I grab it with both hands.
“I fly out Sunday after the wedding. A week in Portofino. Just me and carbs.”
“Alone?” There’s something in the way she asks it.
“That’s the plan.”
“No… special someone to take?”
I laugh. “My special someone is my passport.”
“Relatable,” Dean mutters.
Mason and Ivy exchange a look I don’t like.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Ivy says too quickly. “Just thinking Dean could use a vacation.”
“I don’t do vacations.”
“You don’t do fun,” Mason corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Dinner continues. Stories get told. Ivy shares how they met (book club, his was the only male perspective, she was intrigued). Normal couple stuff that makes my chest tight with something I refuse to name.
“What about you?” Ivy asks. “Worst wedding disaster?”
This one?
I tell them about the beach officiant with food poisoning, the stoned maid of honor, writing her toast on her palm in Sharpie. Even Dean laughs—this low sound that does things to my spine.
“More wine?” he asks, already pouring.
Our fingers brush on the glass. Lightning shoots up my arm — quick, sharp, impossible to ignore. I swallow before I can embarrass myself and focus on my plate like it holds answers.
“So, Dean,” Ivy says, and her tone makes my stomach drop. “Still single?”
The temperature plummets. Even the air feels different, brittle somehow.
“Yes.” Dean doesn’t look up from his plate. His fork scrapes once against the porcelain, deliberate.
“Really? Mom mentioned that woman from your firm—” Mason cuts in.
“Is married,” he says flatly. “To her wife.”
“Oh.” Ivy deflates, shoulders slumping. “Well, there goes that.”
