“I hate him,” I say.
“No you don’t.” Dean’s watching me, not the goat.
I glare at George, who’s now turned to show his better side. “I really do.”
“You’re taking pictures right now.”
I lower my phone. “Shut up.”
Dean laughs. Real, actual laughter. The sound hits me right in the chest. It’s magnificent. Deep and unfiltered and perfect.
“What?”
“Nothing.” But he’s still smiling. “Just… you. This week. Everything.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“No,” he agrees. “It’s not.”
The band starts another song. People drift back to dancing. But we just stand there, him looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s finally solving, me trying not to do something stupid like ask him to come to Italy.
“Poppy! Dean!” Mason appears, flushed and grinning. “Family photo!”
And just like that, the moment breaks.
But as we follow Mason to where the photographer’s setting up, Dean’s hand finds the small of my back. Guiding. Gentle. Possessive in a way that makes me shiver.
“Cold?” he murmurs.
“No.”
“Liar.” He smirks.
“Takes one to know one.”
His thumb traces a small circle through the fabric of my dress. “We’re really doing this? Now? Trading barbs during family photos?”
“You started it.”
“Pretty sure you started it when you showed up with a goat.”
“That was an accident!”
“So you keep saying.”
“PLACES!” The photographer’s waving us around like we’re chess pieces. “Bride and groom center! Family around them! Wedding planner—oh, you’re not family? Well, stay anyway. You look gorgeous in that light.”
I try to step away but Ivy yanks my arm. “She’s practically family. She stays.”
So I end up in the Whitaker family photo, tucked between Dean and Mason while the photographer snaps away and the sun paints everything gold.
“Smile like you mean it,” Dean says under his breath.
“I am smiling.” I keep my face frozen in place, aware of the camera.
He leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine. “No, you’re panicking.”
“Same thing.” But my smile softens, becomes real.
