“People. On vacation. Together.”
He studies me over his espresso, his eyes searching my face. “Is that what we are?”
“I don’t know.” I steal a bite of his maybe-fish, needing something to do with my hands. “What do you think we are?”
“Disasters,” he replies immediately. “Absolute disasters who can’t keep their hands off each other.”
“Romantic.” I’m smiling despite the sarcasm.
“You want romantic?” He leans across the tiny table, close enough for me to smell his cologne mixed with espresso. “Fine. I think we’re whatever makes you tackle me in pizza grease. Whatever makes me fly to Italy with jewelry. Whatever this is that makes me want to buy every goat in this country just to see you smile like that.”
I can’t help but smile. “Every goat?”
“Don’t test me.” He’s completely serious, which makes it funnier.
“Dean Whitaker, goat collector.”
“Has a nice ring to it.”
The waiter brings more espresso, judging Dean’s Italian pronunciation. They appear to have an argument about conjugation. I watch, charmed by how bad he is at this, how he gestures with his hands as if that will somehow correct his terrible grammar.
“You’re really terrible at Italian,” I inform him when the waiter leaves, shaking his head.
“Good thing I have other skills.” He’s using that voice that makes me think of last night. And this morning.
“Like?” I aim for casual but miss by several time zones.
His foot finds mine under the table, his dress shoe sliding against my sandal in a slow, deliberate movement. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I already know. Three times, remember?”
“Four. You’re forgetting the shower.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “The shower doesn’t count. That was just—”
“Just what?” His voice drops to that dangerous register that should come with a warning label. “Just you pressed against the tile while I—”
“Check, please!” I practically shout, flagging down our long-suffering waiter.
Dean laughs, the sound rich and genuine. He throws euros on the table with the confidence of someone who has no idea how much anything costs here. “Come on. Let’s go buy you something inappropriate.”
“More inappropriate than this dress?” I stand, smoothing down the sundress that’s already riding up my thighs.
“Is that a challenge?” The look he gives me suggests he’s already planning exactly how to make good on it.
We wander through the narrow streets, passing shops that sell everything from handmade pasta to questionable “designer” handbags. Dean immediately gravitates toward a stall displaying the tiniest bikinis I’ve ever seen outside of a dental hygiene convention.
“Absolutely not.” I cross my arms and shake my head.
“This one’s nice.” He holds up what might generously be called a string with aspirations.
“That’s not a bathing suit. That’s dental floss with delusions of grandeur.”
“Fashion-forward dental floss.” He drapes it over me, considering it with the focus of a man making important fashion decisions. “We have a pool at the villa...”
“We have a goat at the villa.” I push the string away.
“Good point. Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.” He pauses, hanging the bikini back up. “Although after the shower incident, I think that ship has sailed.”
