Chapter Thirty-Five When in Portofino
Chapter Thirty-Five
When in Portofino
Poppy
I wake up to Dean cursing in Italian.
Not good Italian. Terrible, American, possibly just made-up Italian.
“What are you doing?” My voice comes out scratchy. Everything is sore in the best way possible.
He’s standing at the window in his boxers, glaring at something outside. Morning light hits the planes of his back, highlighting scratches I definitely left there.
“There’s a goat.”
I bolt upright, the sheet pooling around my waist. “What?”
“A freaking goat. On the terrace. Eating the...” He squints. “I think those were roses.”
“You’re hallucinating.” But I’m already scrambling out of bed.
“Come look.”
I wrap the sheet around myself and pad over. Sure enough, there’s a white goat on the terrace, methodically destroying what was probably a very expensive flower arrangement.
“Oh my gosh.”
“It’s like George followed us.” He sounds personally offended, running a hand through his already messy hair. “Is this my life now? Stalker goats?”
The goat looks up, makes direct eye contact with Dean, and knocks over a potted lemon tree.
“I think he’s establishing dominance,” I say, biting back a laugh.
“I’m going out there.” He’s already moving toward the door.
“Dean, no—”
But he’s already sliding open the door, marching out in his boxers like some kind of deranged warrior. The goat bleats. Dean points at it with the authority of someone used to winning arguments.
“No. Bad goat. Drop the... whatever that is.”
The goat eats faster, chewing with vindictive pleasure.
“I’m serious. I flew four thousand miles to get away from this.”
I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe, clutching the doorframe for support. “Please stop arguing with the goat.”
“He started it!” Dean’s voice rises, incredulous.
The goat hops onto a table. Dean’s face goes through about seventeen emotions, ending somewhere between rage and resignation.
“That’s it. We’re leaving. Getting dressed. Going into town. Somewhere goat-free.”
“But he’s so cute—” I’m still giggling, watching this whole disaster unfold.
“Poppy.” Just my name, but it carries a warning.
“Fine.” I watch the goat demolish another plant with apparent glee. “But I’m taking a picture first.”
“Of course you are.” He shakes his head, but his mouth is twitching.
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking down narrow stone steps toward the harbor. I’m wearing a sundress I’m really glad I packed—it’s white, hits mid-thigh, and Dean’s been staring at my legs since we left the villa.
“You’re going to make us crash,” I inform him as he walks into his third lamppost.
“Worth it.” He doesn’t even look apologetic.
“Smooth talker.”
“You want smooth?” He spins me against an ancient stone wall, caging me in with his arms. “How’s this for smooth—you look positively edible, and I’m considering dragging you back to bed.”
My breath catches, my heart stuttering. “That’s not smooth. That’s caveman.”
“You like caveman.” His voice drops to that register that makes my knees weak.
I do. I really do.
“Weren’t we escaping livestock?” I manage, though my voice comes out breathy.
He grins, slow and satisfied, stepping back. “Right. Goat-free zones only.”
We wander without a plan. That’s the thing about Dean, I’m learning—when he lets go of control, he really lets go. No itinerary. No schedule. Just his hand in mine and wherever our feet take us.
The town is stupidly charming: pastel buildings stacked like cake layers, boats bobbing in water so blue it looks fake. Tourists are everywhere, but it doesn’t matter because Dean keeps pulling me into tiny alleyways to kiss me senseless.
“You’re insatiable,” I gasp after he’s basically attacked me behind a gelato shop.
“Your fault.” He nips at my throat, his teeth grazing sensitive skin. “That dress is criminal.”
“Want me to change?” I tease, though my pulse is racing.
“Hell no. I want you to wear it forever. Or nothing. Preferably nothing.”
An elderly Italian woman passes us, saying something that sounds judgmental. Dean grins and responds in his terrible Italian. She laughs, pats his cheek, and continues walking.
“What did you say?” I ask, straightening my dress, my cheeks warm.
“No idea. Either ‘sorry for the public display’ or ‘your fish is on fire.’ My pronunciation needs work.”
We find a tiny café overlooking the water. The owner knows zero English, and Dean knows zero real Italian. Somehow, we end up with espresso, pastries, and what might be fish but could also be chicken.
“This is nice,” I say, looking out at the boats.
“The possible fish?” He pokes at it with his fork, suspicious.
I laugh. “This.” I gesture between us. “Being normal. Like we’re just...”
“Just what?” He sets down his fork, giving me his full attention.
“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.”
“George II has seen things,” I agree solemnly.
“George II needs therapy.”
Instead, I try on enormous sunglasses that make me look like a bug from a 1960s sci-fi movie. Dean takes approximately forty pictures, each more ridiculous than the last, laughing the entire time.
“Delete those.” I’m trying to look stern but failing.
“Never. This is blackmail material.” He’s still snapping photos, circling me like a demented photographer.
“For what?”
“Future negotiations.” He pulls me close, his hands settling on my waist as if they belong there. “When you’re being stubborn about something.”
“I’m never stubborn.” I tilt my chin up, defiant.
He just looks at me.
“Okay, rarely stubborn.” I’m wavering under his gaze.
The look continues.
“Shut up.” I swat his chest.
We buy the sunglasses, a leather journal that I can’t resist because of the smell, and a bottle of limoncello because Dean insists we need more.
We sit by the harbor, eating gelato—pistachio for him, stracciatella for me.
We people-watch, making up elaborate backstories for tourists, pointing out dogs and rating them on a scale from one to Muffin.
We argue about whether that building is coral or salmon-colored.
“It’s clearly coral,” I insist, pointing with my gelato spoon.
“That’s salmon. Look at the way the light hits it.” He’s squinting at the building like a serious art critic.
“That’s not how color works.”
“I have excellent color vision. I once won a case based on my ability to distinguish between burgundy and maroon.”
I lower my gelato. “That’s not a thing that happened.”
“It could have happened.” He’s fighting a smile.
“Dean.”
“Fine. But that building is still salmon.”
“You’re salmon.” It’s childish, but I don’t care.
“That doesn’t even make sense.” But he’s laughing.
“Your face doesn’t make sense.”