“That you wrecked me.” My voice drops. “In one week, Poppy. You were in my life for just over a week, and you wrecked everything I thought I knew about myself.”
Her breath catches.
“My friend has a baby,” I continue because apparently, I’m doing this. “Showed me eight thousand photos. Of his daughter. His wife. Their life. This whole messy, chaotic, beautiful disaster of a life. And all I could think was how I used to mock him for wanting that. For choosing that. For being brave enough to admit he needed someone.”
“Dean—”
“I can’t.” The admission burns coming out. It’s the brutal, awful, messy truth, and I can’t hold it in any longer. The idea of Poppy as my wife—mine forever, pregnant with my baby—should scare the ever-loving hell out of me. But it doesn’t. In fact, warmth spreads through me at the thought of it. I take a breath and continue, “I can’t go back. To the quiet. To the empty house. To pretending this”—I gesture between us—”isn’t everything.”
She makes a sound. Small. Wounded.
“So yeah. I flew to Italy. With your earring. Because I needed an excuse. Because even now, even after everything, I’m still the guy who needs a prop to say what should be simple.”
“What should be simple?” Her voice is small, uncertain.
I meet her eyes. Endless blue pools of worry. No more running.
“You—” I pull a breath into my lungs, trying to compose myself. “I want this… a shot with you. If, uh, that’s something you want too.”
She wipes her face. Glares. “Right now, I mostly want to push you off this terrace.”
“Poppy—” I smirk.
“I’m not done.” She jabs a finger at my chest. “You don’t get to just show up and declare feelings and fix everything. You hurt me.”
“I know.”
“You let me leave.” The pain behind her eyes is evident, and Ihatethat I’m the one who put it there.
“I know.”
“You—”
I kiss her.
I probably shouldn’t. She’s still mid-rant. But something inside me snaps. Built-up want, plus days of regret. My declaration still hanging between us.
She makes a noise against my mouth. Fury or need or both. Then her hands are in my hair, and she’s kissing me back like it’s war. Like she’s still mad but also desperate. Like maybe she’s been as wrecked as me.
“This doesn’t fix it,” she gasps when we break apart.
“I know.”
“I’m still angry.” Her eyes flash on mine.
“Good.”
“Good?”
I frame her face with my hands. “Be angry. Be furious. Push me off the terrace if you want. But do it tomorrow. Just—” My voice breaks. “Just don’t make me leave right now.”
She studies me. Long enough that I think maybe—
“You’re really bad at this.”
“The worst,” I agree.
“The earring thing was stupid.”
