Chapter Thirty-Four Pizza in Bed
Chapter Thirty-Four
Pizza in Bed
Dean
She’s draped across my chest like a blanket. A very satisfied, slightly sweaty blanket that keeps drawing patterns on my skin.
“So,” she says.
“So.”
“That happened.”
I trace lazy circles on her back, still catching my breath. “Three times.”
She laughs. I feel it everywhere. “Show-off.”
“You started it.”
She smiles. “Did not.”
“Did too.” I catch her hand. Kiss her palm. “Had to prove I wasn’t all talk.”
“Mm. Good follow-through.”
“Thanks. I aim to please.”
“Such a giver.”
We’re quiet for a minute. It’s a quiet that should probably feel awkward but doesn’t. Outside, I can hear the ocean. Boats in the harbor. Real life happening while we hide in this bubble.
“I’m hungry,” she announces.
“Worked up an appetite?”
“Mm.” She stretches like a cat. “Think we can find any good Italian takeout?”
“In Italy?” I deadpan. “Might be tough.”
She laughs into my chest. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”
“There’s probably menus somewhere.” I trace lazy circles on her hip. Can’t stop touching her. “Or we could be really American about it and order pizza.”
“God yes. Extra cheese. Maybe some of that fancy prosciutto.”
“Classy.”
She props herself up on an elbow, sheet slipping down to reveal one perfect shoulder. The moonlight through the window catches the sheen of sweat on her collarbone. My mouth goes dry.
“You’re different,” she says, studying me with those eyes that see too much.
“Different how?”
She traces her finger along my jaw, featherlight. I fight the urge to turn into her touch like some desperate thing.
“Relaxed. Like you finally stopped clenching.”
“I don’t clench.”
“Dean.” She laughs, low and knowing. “You’re basically a human fist.”
The truth of it stings. But then—
“Was,” I correct.
Something shifts in her face. Soft. Real. Like maybe she gets it. Gets me. Like maybe I’m not too much for her.
“Was,” she agrees.
We find menus in a kitchen drawer, both of us padding around mostly naked like this is normal.
Like I fly to Italy all the time to chase wedding planners who turn my life inside out.
The tile is cold under my feet. She shivers when she leans against the counter, and I wrap myself around her from behind, skin to skin.
“Your Italian is shit,” she informs me, squinting at the app.
“Yours is better?”
“I know important phrases. Like ‘more wine’ and ‘where’s the bathroom’.”
“Practical.”
She tilts her head back against my shoulder. “Did we just order six pizzas?”
I look at the confirmation. “Or six toppings. Hard to tell.”
“Either way, we’re committed now.”
While we wait, she raids the villa owner’s wine collection, pulling out bottles like she owns the place.
There’s something intoxicating about watching her move through space—confident, unselfconscious.
She’s wearing my shirt now, and every time she reaches up, I catch a glimpse of the bruise I left on her hip.
Mine.
“This feels illegal,” she says, examining a Barolo.
“You said the host told you to make yourself at home.”
“Pretty sure they didn’t mean bang in every room and steal the Barolo.”
The image flashes—her against every surface, crying out my name. My voice comes out rough. “We haven’t banged in every room.”
“Yet.” She grins over her shoulder. Pure trouble. “The night’s still young.”
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“What a way to go though.” She laughs.
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell saves me from doing something stupid like bending her over the kitchen island. Though from the look in her eyes, she’s thinking the same thing.
Six pizzas. Because of course.
We sprawl across the bed like teenagers, boxes everywhere, no plates, no dignity. Just her legs tangled with mine and tomato sauce that’s definitely gonna stain these sheets.
“Oh, good grief.” The sound she makes around her first bite goes straight to my groin. “This is pornographic.”
“The pizza?”
“Everything. This whole night.” She gestures with her slice, and a piece of cheese lands on my chest. She leans over to lick it off, and I forget how to breathe. “You show up. We fight. We destroy the bedding. Now there’s cheese. It’s perfect.”
I chuckle. “Your standards are concerningly low.”
She bites my chest. I jerk hard enough to upset a pizza box.
“My standards are exactly where they should be.” She settles back against the pillows, stealing a piece of my prosciutto. “Right here. In bed. With you. And roughly seventeen pounds of carbs.”
The casual way she says it—like this is obvious, like we’re obvious—does something to my chest. We eat in comfortable silence for a minute, just the sound of chewing and the distant harbor bells.
“Tell me something,” she says eventually, wiping her hands on a napkin.
My guard comes up automatically, walls starting to rebuild themselves. “What?”
“Something real. Something you haven’t told anyone.” Her voice is soft, coaxing.
I watch her lick sauce off her thumb. My brain short-circuits for a second before I can answer.
“I hate my house.”
Her hand stills. “What?”
“Always have.” The admission feels weird in my mouth. True but foreign. “It’s too big. Too quiet. Bought it because it seemed like what I should want.”
I shrug, but she’s watching me now with that look. The one that strips me bare.
“Turns out, ‘should’ is bullshit.”
“Huh.” She goes back to her thumb, and I have to look away. “What do you actually want?”
“In a house?”
“In general.”
Dangerous question. Especially when she’s sitting there in my shirt with sex hair and pizza grease on her fingers, looking like everything I never knew I needed.
“Noise,” I say finally. The words come slow, careful. “Chaos. Someone to fight with over dinner. A dog that steals the covers. A goat that commits crimes.”
“That’s oddly specific.” She’s trying not to smile.
“Wonder why.”
She’s on me before I see it coming. Pizza boxes fly. She pins me in place, straddling my hips, and I could flip us in a heartbeat but why would I want to?
“You’re a closet romantic,” she accuses.
“Am not.” But I can feel my defenses crumbling under her gaze.
She shifts her weight, settling more firmly against me. “Are too.” She pokes me in the chest. Then she grinds down just enough to make me groan. “Dean Whitaker wants a family.”
“I want—”
The word sticks. You. Too much. Too soon. Too real. I don’t say it. Not yet. Not tonight.
“What?” Her face softens.
“This,” I manage. “Whatever this is.”
She studies me for a long moment. I can feel her pulse where she’s pressed against me. Then she smiles, small and private.
“Me too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She curls against my side like she belongs there. Because she does. She really does. “Even though you’re emotionally stunted and can’t admit you are a total softy.”
She’s laughing into my shoulder, her whole body shaking with it. I’m laughing too, and the bed’s a disaster zone of pizza and wine and us, and somehow this is the happiest I’ve been in… ever?
“We should clean up,” she says without moving.
“Should we though?”
“The grease is gonna—”
I shrug. “Tomorrow’s problem.”
She props up to look at me. “You’re really embracing this new spontaneous thing.”
“When in Rome.”
“We’re not in Rome.”
I blank, jetlag already setting in. “True. When in… what’s this place called?”
“Portofino, you absolute disaster.”
“Right. When in Portofino.”
She kisses me, and she tastes like wine and marinara and possibility. Her tongue slides against mine, lazy and thorough, like we have all the time in the world.
I hop up to clear away the pizza boxes and then rejoin her on the bed. We settle in together. Her back to my chest. My arm around her waist. Perfect fit.
“Dean?”
The contentment in the room shifts slightly, becomes something heavier. “Yeah?”
“What happens tomorrow?”
I pull her closer, buying time, feeling the warmth of her against me. “We’ll figure it out.”
She’s quiet for a beat, and I can feel her processing, deciding whether to let it go. “That’s not really an answer.”
“I know.” The truth is, I’m not sure.
She turns in my arms. Studies my face in the dim light. “I’m scared too, you know.”
“I know.”
“But I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She kisses me. Soft. Sweet.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow can wait.
Tonight, we have this. Pizza and laughter and skin against skin. No promises except the ones our bodies make. No plans except to wake up together and see what happens next.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
It’s enough.
For now.