“That was before.” His voice softens, becoming serious.
“Before what?”
He kisses me instead of answering. Right there on the street, with gelato-sticky fingers and tourist crowds around us. He tastes like pistachio and possibility, all the words he still can’t quite say.
“Before that,” he says against my lips.
We’re heading back when we pass a jewelry store. One of those places with a window display that whispers “expensive” in twelve languages. Dean stops so abruptly I almost run into him. He’s staring at the window display with an expression I can’t read—intense, focused, almost hungry.
“See something you like?” I tease, but my voice comes out breathier than intended.
“Yeah.”
The way he says it—soft, certain, like he’s not talking about jewelry at all—makes my stomach do a complicated flip. His hand tightens on mine, and for a moment I think he’s going to say something else. Something important.
But then he shakes his head, as if clearing it, and pulls me along. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
He leads me through winding streets that get progressively steeper. And steeper. And dear God, even steeper. By the time we reach a small church on a hill, I’m wheezing like an asthmatic.
“You did that on purpose,” I gasp, clutching the stone wall for support. My thighs are burning.
“The view’s worth it,” he says, not even slightly out of breath. The bastard.
And then I turn around, and okay, he’s right. The entire coast spreads out below us—impossibly blue water dotted with boats like scattered confetti, buildings tumbling down the hillside in shades of amber and rose, the sun starting its descent and painting everything gold.
“Oh,” I breathe, all annoyance forgotten.
“Yeah.” He’s not looking at the view. He’s looking at me. “Oh.”
We stand there as the light changes, as the church bells ring the hour, as the world goes soft and golden around us. His arms come around me from behind, and I lean back into his warmth, feeling his heartbeat against my back.
“I could stay here,” I say quietly.
“In Italy?” His voice rumbles through his chest.
“In this moment.” I turn in his arms, looking up at him. “With you.”
Something shifts in his expression—hope and fear tangled together. “Poppy—”
“I know. We have to go back. Deal with real life. Figure out what this is when we’re not in vacation mode.” I touch his face, feeling the slight stubble under my palm. “But right now, can we just—”
“Yes,” he says, before I can finish. “Whatever you were going to say. Yes.”
He kisses me as the sun sets over Portofino, and for once, I don’t think about plans or business or what comes next. I just think about this—his hands in my hair, his solid warmth against me, the way he makes me feel like maybe chaotic disasters can have happy endings too.
“Ready to head back?” he asks eventually, when the light has faded to purple and the first stars begin to appear.
“Can we take a taxi? My feet have filed a formal complaint.” I wiggle my toes in my sandals, feeling the blisters forming.
“I’ll carry you.” He’s already bending as if he’s going to scoop me up.
“Down a million stone steps? I’ve seen your coordination.” I push against his chest, laughing.
“Not fair. I was distracted.”
“Everything’s distracting to you when I’m in a sundress.”
“Guilty.” He takes my hand, lacing our fingers together. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
