My chest does something complicated. “Poppy—”
“I know. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong everything.” She laughs, but it’s watery. “Story of my life.”
“Tell me.”
“What?”
“Your story. The real one. Why you’re really running to Italy.”
She pulls her knees up. Makes herself smaller. “I got fired,” she says suddenly.
“What?”
“The day I arrived. My boss called. Fired me over the phone on my drive here.” She’s not looking at me now. “This wedding was supposed to be my comeback. My proof that I could do this on my own.”
“And you did.”
“Did I? Or did I just get lucky with a guitar-playing lawyer and his chaos-loving brother?”
She moves closer. Close enough I can smell her shampoo. See the faint freckles across her nose. Count the ways this is going to hurt tomorrow.
“Hey.” I catch her chin. Make her look at me. “You pulled off a perfect wedding with no team, no backup, and a possessed goat working against you.”
She laughs and the sound hits me square in the chest. “George isn’t possessed.”
“Debatable.” I trace my thumb along her jaw. “You’re incredible. You know that, right?”
“I’m a mess.”
“You’re my mess.”
The words hang there. Too much. Too real.
“For tonight,” I add.
“Right. Tonight.”
She kisses me. Softly. Slowly. Like we have time we don’t actually have.
I pull her closer, onto my lap. Her hands tangle in my hair, my arms wrap around her waist, and fuck being careful.
“Dean,” she breathes against my mouth, my name a prayer and a question.
“I know.” The words rumble between us, acknowledging everything we’re not saying.
“We should stop.” But even as she says it, her fingers tighten in my hair, holding me to her.
“Probably.” I don’t sound convinced. I’m not convinced.
But she’s kissing my neck now, and my brain shorts out. Her teeth graze my pulse point, and—
“Poppy,” I groan, the sound wrecked and desperate.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, lips swollen, breathing hard. “Too much?”
“Not enough.” My hands slide up her back, pressing her closer. “Never enough.”
She pulls back further, looking at me with eyes gone dark, pupils wide. Her chest heaves, her dress askew. “We can’t.”
