Less than twenty-four hours until my flight.
Twenty-four hours to figure out what I’m going to say when I see her.
No pressure.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mine
Dean
She’s on the terrace when I find her.
Because of course she is. Backlit by the sunset like some Renaissance painting, hair loose and catching gold, wearing this white linen thing that makes my chest tight.
Four days. It’s only been four days, and she’s more beautiful than memory served.
I clear my throat.
She turns.
And the look on her face—shock morphing to something else, something raw—nearly drops me.
“Dean?” Her voice breaks on my name. Just cracks right down the middle.
“Hi.”
Smooth. Real smooth. Fly four thousand miles to say ‘hi.’
She blinks. Once. Twice. Her hand grips the terrace railing like she needs the anchor. Like I might disappear if she lets go.
“What are you—how did you—”
I hold up the earring. My hand’s not quite steady. “You left this.”
The words hang between us. Stupid. Inadequate. The Mediterranean breeze picks up, sending her hair across her face. She doesn’t move to fix it.
Her face changes. Something shutters behind her eyes, and when she looks at me again, it’s pure steel.
“You’re joking.”
“I thought you might want—”
Her expression changes. “Don’t.”
She’s across the terrace in three steps, sandaled feet slapping against stone. Her sundress whips around her legs. Fury radiates off her in waves, but there’s something else too. Something raw underneath the anger.
“Don’t you dare. You flew to Italy to return an earring?”
“Poppy—”
“No.” She’s right in my space now.
Close enough that I can see the sun freckles across her nose. Smell the lemons from her shampoo mixed with wine and salt air. Her chest rises and falls too fast.
“You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up here and pretend—”
“I’m not pretending—”
