Chapter Thirty-Six All In
Chapter Thirty-Six
All In
Dean
She’s making coffee wrong.
Standing in the villa’s kitchen wearing my shirt and nothing else, she grinds beans like it’s a personal vendetta. Her hair is everywhere—long, unruly, and probably tangled from my hands. I got a little carried away last night.
But how could I not?
“You’re staring,” she says without turning around.
“You’re murdering those beans.”
“They deserve it.” She glances over her shoulder. “Want some?”
“I want to talk.”
The grinder stops and her gaze flicks over to mine. “That sounds ominous.”
“Not ominous. Just…” I scrub a hand through my hair. “Necessary.”
She turns fully now, leaning against the counter, crossing her arms. The gesture pushes my shirt up her thighs, and I lose my train of thought for a second.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “Talk.”
Right. The speech I practiced in the shower. While she was sleeping. While I was panicking about messing this up.
“I figure we have two options,” I start.
Her eyebrow arches. “Only two?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“Can’t help it.” Her mouth lifts in a wry smile.
“Poppy.”
“Sorry.” She’s not sorry. “Continue with your PowerPoint.”
I move closer. I need to be closer. “Option one: We date long distance. You go back to California; I go back to New York. We text, FaceTime, meet up when we can, and see where this goes.”
“Hmm.” She’s doing that thing where she doesn’t give away what she’s thinking. And she’s really damn good at it. “And option two?”
This is the hard part. The scary part. The part where I lay it all out and hope she doesn’t run.
“Option two…” I take a breath. “We go all in.”
“Define ‘all in.’”
Another shallow breath. “You move to New York. Move in with me. We skip the whole dating-across-the-country thing and just… do this. Together. For real.”
Silence.
She stares at me. I stare back. Somewhere outside, that damn goat is probably destroying more landscaping.
“That’s…” She stops. Starts again. “Dean, that’s insane.”
“Is it?”
“Yes! We’ve known each other—”
“One week, six days, and approximately sixteen hours.”
“You counted?”
“I’m a lawyer. I count everything.” I close the distance between us, boxing her in against the counter. “And you know what? I don’t care. I spent four days without you, and it was the worst four days of my life.”
“Dean—”
“I haven’t passed the bar in California, so I couldn’t work as an attorney there,” I continue, riding the momentum.
“But you could build something incredible in New York—if you’re up for it.
The wedding planning scene there is insane.
The Hudson Valley alone could keep you booked for years.
Rich people with country estates and too much money. ”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve thought about nothing else.” My hands find her waist. “The guest cottage becomes your office. You terrorize Manhattan’s elite. I come home to chaos and goats—”
“Dean.”
I frame her face, making her look at me. “I want option two. I want you in my house, in my bed, in my life. Every day. Starting now.”
Her eyes are doing something complicated. Getting shiny. Shit.
“You can’t just—” Her voice cracks. “You can’t just offer me everything I want and expect me to be rational about it.”
“I don’t want you rational. I want you mine.”
“I am yours, you possessive disaster.” She’s definitely crying now. Happy tears, I think. Hope. “But this is crazy. Moving in together after two weeks—”
“I know,” I admit. “It might sound crazy, but…”
“Shut up.” But she’s smiling through the tears. “My whole life is in California. My apartment. My clients. My—”
“Your what?” I challenge. “Your thriving social life? Your deep connections? Your fulfilling existence that definitely doesn’t involve working yourself to death to avoid feeling lonely?”
Direct hit. She glares. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s completely fair. We’re the same, Poppy. Hiding behind work because it’s easier than admitting we want more.”
“And you think more is me moving across the country to live with a man who argues with goats?”
“I think more is us. Together. Figuring it out as we go.” I thumb away a tear. “Unless you want option one. Unless you want to do this the safe way.”
She laughs—tearful and disbelieving. “When have I ever done anything the safe way?”
“So…?”
“So you’re insane. This whole idea is insane. Moving in together, starting over, building a business…” She stops and takes a shaky breath. “It’s completely crazy.”
My heart sinks. “But?”
“But…” She loops her arms around my neck. “I want option two.”
The world stops.
“You—what?”
“Option two. All in. The whole disaster.” She’s full-on crying now, but also smiling so bright it hurts to look at. “Is that crazy?”
“Completely.” I kiss her, tasting salt and coffee and future. “Let’s be crazy together.”
She laughs against my mouth. “My mother’s going to freak.”
“She’s going to love me.”
“Dean!”
“What?” I lift her onto the counter. “Call her later. I’ll talk to her if you want.”
She gives me a look. “Yeah? And say what?”
I shrug. “I’ll tell her that I found someone who makes me want things.”
“Things?” She blinks.
“Noise. Chaos. A life that’s more than billable hours.”
“Stop saying perfect things.” She wraps her legs around me. “I’m already saying yes.”
“Say it again.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“Yes, you controlling—”
I kiss her quiet. Then not quiet. Then we’re definitely going to scandalize this kitchen again.
“Wait,” she gasps. “We need to talk logistics. When do we—”
“Later.”
“But—”
“Poppy.” I pull back to look at her. “We just decided to blow up both our lives and see what happens. Logistics can wait an hour.”
She studies me. This woman who crashed into my life with her lists and her chaos and her ability to see right through me.
“An hour?”
“Maybe two.”
“Dean Whitaker.” She grins. “Are you suggesting we celebrate our completely insane decision with more sex?”
“I’m suggesting we seal the deal. Legally binding and all that.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
The words hang there. Love. Not quite said but absolutely felt.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I really do.”
And then we’re kissing again, and talking becomes impossible, and somewhere in Italy a goat is probably plotting our demise, but I don’t care.
Because she said yes.
To option two.
To crazy.
To us.
“We’re really doing this,” she says.
We’re back in bed. Exhausted. Sticky. Stupidly happy.
“We’re really doing this.”
“I need to give notice on my apartment.”
“I need to clean out my closet. Make space.”
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
I think about it. Really think about it. What if she hates New York? What if we drive each other crazy? What if this thing between us burns too hot and flames out?
“Then we’ll figure that out too,” I say finally. “But Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
She props up on an elbow. “No?”
“No.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. “Because you’re it for me. Whatever that means, however that looks. You’re it.”
“You can’t just say things like—”
“Watch me.”
She kisses me. Soft and sure and full of promise.
“For the record,” she says against my lips, “you’re it for me too.”
“Good.” I pull her back down. “Now stop talking. We have a whole life to plan.”
“I thought logistics could wait.”
“Changed my mind. Tell me about your California clients.”
And she does. Talks for an hour about her business, her dreams, her plans. I listen and plot and picture her taking over Manhattan one wedding at a time.
Option two.
Best decision I’ve ever made.
Completely crazy.
Absolutely perfect.
Just like us.