Chapter Thirty-Five When in Portofino #2
An elderly Italian woman pauses to stare at us. We’re clearly disturbing the peace with our silly argument. Dean says something to her in his terrible Italian, probably trying to ask her opinion about the building. She pats his cheek like he’s a particularly slow child and continues walking.
“This is fun,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
He turns to me, gelato forgotten. “What?”
“You. Being fun. It’s disconcerting. Like finding out your tax attorney secretly does stand-up.”
“I’m incredibly fun. A delight. A joy to be around. Ask anyone.” He’s using his lawyer voice, making his case.
“You tried to evict me via a Reddit post.” I point my spoon at him accusingly.
“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.”
Home. The word lands soft and warm in my chest.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
And maybe that’s the whole thing—the answer to what we are and what we’re doing. We’re just two people who can’t imagine being anywhere else.
“Ready to face the goat?”
“Together.” The word comes out more serious than I intend.
“Together,” I agree.
He helps me up but doesn’t let go of my hand.
We find a taxi, and by the time we reach the villa, the sun has disappeared. The goat’s gone, but it has left devastation in its wake.
“Poor roses,” I mourn, surveying the carnage.
“They died for a good cause.” He’s already pulling me toward the door.
“Which is?”
“Getting us out of bed.” He drops the bags and pulls me against him. “Although now that we’re back…”
“You’re predictable.” But I’m already melting into him.
“You’re beautiful.” His hands slide up my back.
He laughs, kisses me, and walks me backward toward the door.
“Inside,” he says against my mouth. “Now.”
I love this side of him, this bossy side. Maybe I shouldn’t, but God help me, I really do.
Tomorrow we’ll have to talk. About what this is, where we go, and what happens when real life crashes back in.
But tonight?
Tonight, I’m his.
Dean wraps himself around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. One arm is under my pillow, the other is tight across my waist. Even almost unconscious, the man doesn’t do anything halfway.
“Your brain’s too loud,” he mumbles into my hair.
“Sorry.” I try to still my racing thoughts.
“Don’t apologize. Just talk to me.” His thumb traces circles on my hip.
I turn in his arms and study his face in the dark. “Tell me about Emily.”
His whole body goes rigid, every muscle tensing. “What?”
“That’s not really a 2 a.m. conversation.” His voice has gone careful and guarded.
“When is it a conversation?” I keep my tone gentle, not pushing.
“Never.”
“Dean—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Poppy. Please. I’m here with you, and she’s the last person I want to be thinking about. She doesn’t deserve any more of my headspace.” There’s pain in his voice, old and deep.
The “please” gets me. Dean doesn’t say please. I don’t know what to say, so I just hold him tighter, pressing my face into his chest.
“Tell me something else,” I say eventually.
“Like?” He’s relaxing slightly, the tension bleeding out.
“What were you like as a kid?”
He groans and rubs the back of his neck like he wants to dodge it. “Pass.”
“Tell me, or I’m putting my cold feet on you.” I wiggle my toes threateningly.
“Terrorist.” But he’s smiling—a small, reluctant smile that I love. “Fine. I was exactly what you’d expect. Quiet. Serious. Reading constantly.”
“What’d you read?” I prop myself up on an elbow, intrigued now.
“John Grisham. All of them. Multiple times.”
“Nerd.” I poke his chest affectionately.
“I conducted mock trials.”
I sit up completely. “What?”
“I had a whole courtroom setup, with stuffed animals as the jury. This teddy bear—Mr. Bear, real original—was always the defendant.” He’s now talking to the ceiling, avoiding my gaze.
“Why?” I’m trying not to laugh.
“He had shifty eyes.”
I’m laughing so hard the bed shakes. “You prosecuted a teddy bear?”
“Multiple times. He was clearly guilty.” His defensiveness makes it even funnier.
“Of what?”
“Various crimes. Mostly theft. Sometimes fraud.” He says it with such seriousness.
“Oh my God, you were adorable.” I collapse back onto his chest, still giggling.
“I was weird.” I can hear the old self-consciousness in his voice.
“Adorably weird.” I settle back against him, kissing his shoulder.
I laugh into his shoulder. I can picture it: a serious, dark-haired little boy lining up his stuffed animals just so, presiding over them…He reminds me a lot of the Dean I first met when I arrived at the estate—full of control, order, and iron-clad boundaries.
Then I think about the Dean who’s currently naked in bed after flying to Italy on a whim, and I smile.
He pulls me closer, his arms tightening around me. “What about you? Ever been in love?”
Ugh. Fair’s fair, I guess.
“I thought I was, in college. Jake.” The name still tastes bitter.
“Jake.” He spits it out as if it personally offended him. “Tell me Jake died tragically.”
“He teaches kindergarten in Portland.” I can’t help but laugh at Dean’s tone.
“Even worse.” He sounds genuinely appalled.
I laugh despite myself. “He was nice—”
“Nice.” He says it like it’s a curse word.
“Stop saying it like that.” I poke him again.
“Like what?” He’s playing innocent, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Like ‘nice’ is code for having the personality of wheat toast.”
“Isn’t it?” He shifts beneath me to get more comfortable.
Okay, maybe. “We dated for two years. He liked that I had everything planned out and called me his little CEO.”
“I already hate him.” Dean’s voice has gone flat, dangerously so.
“Dean.” I try to sound warning, but it comes out fond.
“What kind of condescending—”
“He slept with my roommate.” I say it quickly, ripping off the band-aid.
Dean goes rigid, actually rigid. “What?” His voice is low, concerned.
“I came back from winter break early. They were in my bed. My actual bed, Dean.”
“I just need a name. His full name. I know people.” He’s sitting up now, genuinely angry.
“You’re not having someone murdered.” I pull him back down.
“Just light maiming.”
“Dean.” But I’m laughing; I can’t help it.
“Fine. Heavy maiming.” He settles but keeps me close.
I kiss him to silence him. When I pull back, he’s still frowning.
“In your bed though?” He sounds personally offended on my behalf.
“Right? There was a whole other bed literally six feet away.” The old anger flares briefly.
“Disrespectful.” He’s tracing patterns on my back now, soothing. We lie there, breathing each other’s air, holding these truths between us. “When was this?”
“Seven years ago.”
“And since then?” His hand pauses on my back, waiting.
“Work.” I shrug against him. “It’s easier to plan other people’s happy endings than risk my own.”
“That’s…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “That actually makes sense.”
“Thanks?” I’m not sure if I should be offended.
“I meant—” He sighs. “I get it. The control thing. If you’re running the show, no one can hurt you.”
“Exactly.” Relief washes through me that he understands.
“Except then some chaos agent shows up with a goat…” His voice lightens.
“And ruins everything,” I finish.
“Or fixes it.” He says it quietly, but I hear the hope underneath.
We’re quiet for a minute—just breathing, existing. It’s nice.
“Your turn,” he says eventually, clearly done with heavy topics. “Little Poppy stories.”
“I ran a wedding business at recess. Second grade.” I grin into the darkness.
“Of course you did.” He sounds delighted, his chest rumbling with laughter. “Please tell me you have photos.”
“Somewhere. I had a whole setup behind the jungle gym. A dollar per ceremony. Two dollars for the deluxe package with flower petals—dandelions I picked from the soccer field.”
“Entrepreneurial.” He sounds impressed, fingers playing with my hair.
I nod, strangely proud. “I made bank until the principal shut me down.”
“Why?” He sounds genuinely offended on eight-year-old me’s behalf.
“Apparently, eight-year-olds can’t legally marry people.” I can still remember my indignation.
“Fascists.” He says it so seriously that I snort.
“Right? I had a whole system. Color-coded certificates. A briefcase.”
“Tell me it was pink.” I can hear his grin.
“Hot pink. With Lisa Frank stickers—dolphins and rainbows everywhere.”
“Perfect.” He’s playing with my hair now, his fingers gently working through the tangles from our earlier activities. “What else?”
I debate how much to share but realize we’re already neck-deep in vulnerability. “I’m an only child and was desperate for siblings. I used to beg my parents for a brother or sister every birthday.”
“What did they say?” His hand stills in my hair.
“That I was enough. It sounds sweet, but it felt like code for ‘we can barely handle one.’“ I laugh, though it’s not really funny. “So I used to marry my Barbies to each other so they could have families.”
“That’s—” He starts, but I cut him off.
“Sad, I know,” I interrupt before he can confirm what I’ve always thought.
“I was going to say sweet.” He kisses my temple, so gentle it makes my chest ache. “You’ve always been building families.”
Why does that make me want to cry? Maybe because no one has ever framed it that way before—not as something pathetic or lonely, but as something… purposeful.
“I guess I have,” I manage, blinking hard against sudden tears.
“All those weddings, bringing people together, creating new families every weekend.” His arms tighten around me. “That’s a gift, Poppy.”
“Even when I create chaos in the process?” My voice is small.
“Especially then. Perfect families are boring. The messy ones are the ones that last.”
I melt into him a little more, feeling something settle in my chest.
“Hey, Poppy?”
I’m half asleep already, warm and safe. “Mm?”
“Today was perfect for me too.”
I sigh a little, content. My hand finds his in the dark.
Yeah. Tomorrow can wait.