Not enough.
She kisses me. Soft this time. Sweet. Which is somehow worse.
“We’re adults,” she says against my mouth.
“So?”
“So we both know what this is.”
“Do we?”
She pulls back. “Chemistry. Bad timing.”
“That’s all?” My heart thuds in my chest.
“What else could it be?”
Ask her to stay.The thought hits like lightning. Insane. Impossible. Who asks someone to change their entire life after little more than a week?
“Right.” I step back. Give her space. Give myself space before I say something stupid. “You’re right.”
She fixes her dress. Smooths her hair. Puts herself back together while I fall apart.
“Poppy.”
She stops, hand still in her hair.
“Yeah?”
“Come on.” I tug her hand, leading toward the house.
“Where are we—” She’s following but confused, looking back at the reception still going strong.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
She blinks at me like I just asked her to solve calculus. “I… what?”
“Food, Poppy. Actual food. Not champagne and whatever crumbs you stole from the catering trays.”
“I ate.” But her voice lacks conviction.
“When?” I push through the back door, pulling her with me into the quiet of the kitchen. The music fades to a distant thrum.
“Earlier.” She’s not meeting my eyes now.
“Try again.”
She’s quiet. Too quiet. Which means I’m right. I can see her trying to calculate when she last sat down, came up empty.
“Thought so.” I pull her through the back door into my kitchen. “Sit.”
“Dean, I’m fine—” She’s still standing, stubborn.
“Sit.” I point at the chair, using my closing argument voice.
She sits. Probably because her feet are killing her in those heels. I can see her trying not to wince every time she shifts, the micro-grimace she thinks she’s hiding.
“Shoes off,” I order, already raiding the fridge.
