Chapter Thirty-Eight Partner
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Partner
Poppy
Dean’s on the floor with Muffin, and I’m trying not to melt into a puddle of goo.
“Mommy’s being mean,” he tells the dog, who sprawls across his lap like she owns him—which, let’s be honest, she does. “She won’t let me hire movers. Says she wants to ‘do it ourselves’ like we’re pioneers.”
“I can hear you.” I lean against the doorway, watching this ridiculous scene unfold.
“Good. Maybe you’ll see reason.” He looks up at me from the floor, his hair mussed from Muffin’s pawing, tie loosened, and the first two buttons of his shirt undone.
He looks nothing like the terrifying lawyer who just got offered partner at one of Manhattan’s most prestigious firms. “Professional movers, Poppy. They have trucks, equipment, and insurance.”
“We have a truck,” I counter, crossing my arms stubbornly.
“We have a U-Haul reservation,” he corrects.
“Same thing.”
“It’s not remotely the same thing.” He turns back to Muffin, scratching behind her ears. “Tell Mommy she’s being stubborn.”
My heart does something stupid at ‘Mommy.’ He’s been doing it all week—casual references to Muffin being ‘our’ dog, to me being her mom, to us being her parents.
Like we’re already a family. Like this thing between us has moved past the ‘what are we doing’ phase into something involving joint custody of a clinically anxious dog.
Like this is real.
Like this is forever.
I’m trying not to be terrified that this will all blow up in my face, but honestly? I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
“I want to road trip,” I explain, joining them on the floor and folding my legs beneath me. “The full moving-across-the-country experience. See the landscape change, eat terrible gas station food, play horrible music you’ll hate.”
“I already hate your music.” But there’s no bite to his words.
“Liar. I caught you humming Taylor Swift yesterday.” I poke his shoulder.
“Lies and slander.” But he’s smiling, that soft grin that crinkles his eyes and makes him look younger. “Three thousand miles, Poppy. In a U-Haul.”
“With you.” I say it simply, as if that settles everything.
He’s quiet for a beat, absorbing that. “I don’t do road trips.”
“You don’t do a lot of things.” I crawl into his lap, displacing a disgruntled Muffin who shoots me a look of pure betrayal. “You didn’t do goats, or weddings, or feelings, or Italian food that wasn’t from that place on 48th. Look at you now.”
His hands find my waist automatically, his thumbs brushing the strip of skin where my shirt has ridden up. “I’m going to regret this.”
“Probably.” I’m grinning now, knowing I’ve won.
“You’re going to make us stop at every tourist trap.” His voice carries a fond resignation.
“Definitely. World’s largest ball of twine, here we come.”
He lifts one brow, considering his fate. “We’re going to fight about the music.”
“Constantly. But the make-up sessions in sketchy motel rooms will be worth it.” I trace the collar of his shirt, feeling his pulse quicken.
He groans, but his hands tighten on my hips. “Fine. But I’m driving.”
“Control freak.”
“Chaos agent.” He shoots back without hesitation.
“Your chaos agent,” I correct, watching his face do that thing—that soft, wondering expression that makes me forget why I ever thought moving across the country for a man I’ve known for only a month was crazy.
That look that says he still can’t quite believe this is happening, that I chose him, that we chose each other.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “Mine.”
Muffin whines from her exile on the cold floor, pawing at Dean’s leg with increasing desperation.
“Ours,” I amend, reaching down to scratch her ears. “Right, baby? We’re all yours. One big, dysfunctional family.”
“She’s not our baby.” He says it automatically, but without conviction.
“She’s absolutely our baby. Look at her little face.” I gesture at Muffin, who’s making her most pathetic expression.
“We’re not those people.” But I can see him wavering, looking at the dog with entirely too much affection.
“We’re absolutely those people.” I kiss his jaw, feeling the slight scratch of five o’clock shadow. “We’re going to be those insufferable people who have professional photos taken with their dog. Matching Christmas sweaters. The whole nine yards. Deal with it, partner.”
He freezes. Complete stillness, as if I’ve said something in a foreign language.
“About that.”
I pull back to see his face properly, tension creeping into my shoulders. “You’re taking it, right? Dean. It’s partner. It’s what you’ve worked for. It’s what you’ve sacrificed everything for.”
“Is it?” His voice is careful, searching.
“Isn’t it?” I counter, studying his expression.
He’s quiet for a long moment, his fingers tracing absent patterns on my hip—the same spot he always touches when he’s thinking, grounding himself in the reality of us. “I don’t know anymore. Everything I thought I wanted… it all made sense before.”
“Before what?” Though I think I already know.
“You.” The word lands between us, heavy with meaning. “Before someone made me realize there’s more to life than billable hours and corner offices. Before I understood that success might look different than I planned.”
Oh.
My heart is doing that thing where it tries to crawl out of my chest and throw itself at him.
“Dean—”
“I’m taking it,” he says quickly, as if he needs to get the words out before he loses his nerve.
“Probably. Most likely. I have three weeks to decide.” He meets my eyes, and there’s a vulnerability there that would have sent him running a month ago.
“Is that okay? That I don’t know? That I might want… different things now?”
I think about the Dean I met three weeks ago—so sure of everything, so rigidly in control, emotions locked down tighter than Fort Knox, with a five-year plan laminated and color-coded.
Now, he’s on the floor with a dog that sheds on his Armani, planning a road trip in a questionable vehicle, admitting he doesn’t have all the answers.
“It’s perfect,” I tell him, meaning every word. “Not knowing is very human of you. I’m proud of your emotional growth.”
“I’m working on it.” He looks almost shy saying it.
“I can tell. You haven’t made a Reddit post about this decision, have you?” I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.
“…no.” The pause is too long.
“Dean.” I can’t help but laugh.
“I made a very small pros and cons list. That’s it.” He’s defensive now, which is adorable.
“Dean.” I chuckle, shaking my head. “We’re having a serious conversation about your future.”
“We’re having a conversation about our future,” he corrects, and there go my internal organs again, liquefying at the casual way he says “our.” “Which includes decisions about where we live, how we live, whether I want to keep working hundred-hour weeks or maybe… find balance.”
“Balance?” I mock-gasp, pressing a hand to my chest. “Who are you and what have you done with Dean Whitaker?”
“Shut up.” But he’s fighting a smile, that firm mouth lifting at the corner.
“Make me.”
He does. Thoroughly. His mouth claims mine with a certainty that makes my toes curl. When we break apart, Muffin has reclaimed his lap, glaring at me like I’m the other woman.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’d be an amazing partner. But I also believe you’d excel at whatever you choose.” I cup his face, making sure he hears me. He’s quiet and meets my eyes, searching them while my fingers stroke his cheek.
“Even if I chose to quit and become a stay-at-home dog dad?” There’s real curiosity in his voice.
“Especially then.” I nod seriously. “Muffin needs structure.”
He smirks, looking down at the neurotic bundle of fur. “She needs therapy.”
“We all need therapy.” I’m not even joking.
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and stands, pulling me up with him in one smooth motion. “Come on. Let’s go look at the plans for turning the cottage into your office again.”
Muffin follows us to the kitchen, where my sketches are spread across the island: plans for the guest cottage office, ideas for the main house, dreams in architectural form.
“I still think we should knock out this wall,” I say, pointing at the main support beam.
“That’s load-bearing.” He doesn’t even look, just knows.
“You don’t know that.” I’m being difficult on purpose now.
“I literally had an engineer confirm it.” He pulls out the report, proof of his over-preparedness.
“Engineers can be wrong.” I’m grasping at straws, and we both know it.
“Poppy.” Just my name, delivered with patient exasperation.
“Fine. But we’re definitely painting the bedroom.” I concede the wall battle to win the war.
“It’s already painted.” He looks at me like I’ve suggested burning the house down.
“Beige isn’t a color. It’s giving up.” I wrinkle my nose at the thought.
He wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. “What color then?”
“Blue. Deep blue. Like—”
“Like the water in Portofino?” He says it softly, close to my ear.
I turn in his arms, surprised. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything.” His voice drops, intimate. “The dress you wore. How you laughed when I accidentally ordered six pizzas.”
“You are so bad at Italian.” I’m smiling at the memory.
“I was nervous.” The admission comes quiet, almost shy.
“Dean Whitaker doesn’t get nervous,” I tease gently.
“Dean Whitaker wasn’t in love before.”
The words hang between us. It’s the first time he’s said it, just dropped it casually, like it’s a fact. Like the sky is blue, water is wet, and Dean Whitaker is in love with me.
My breath catches, my heart hammering. “Dean—”
“I know. It’s too much. Too fast. Too—” He’s rambling now, clearly nervous.
“Perfect,” I interrupt, pressing my fingers to his lips. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. We’re perfectly insane, and I love you too.”
His face does something adorable—shock, joy, and relief all at once. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, you emotional disaster. I love you. Why else would I be moving three thousand miles?” I’m grinning so wide my face hurts.
“My sparkling personality? My excellent taste in dogs?” He’s trying to sound casual but is failing completely.
“Muffin chose you, not the other way around.” I poke his chest.
“Details.” He kisses me. Soft. Then not soft. Then desperate, like he needs to prove this is real. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” The words come easier this time.
“Again.” His hands are in my hair now, holding me close.
“I love you, you controlling—”
He silences me in the best way. When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard, and Muffin is judging us from her bed.
“Three weeks,” he says against my lips. “Then you’re here. In our house. In our bed. Planning weddings for people who aren’t us.”
“About that—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“No.” His tone is firm and immediate.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.” I pull back, feeling indignant.
“You were going to make a joke about our wedding. I’m not ready for jokes about our wedding.” But his ears are turning pink.
“But you’re ready to think about our wedding?” I latch onto that detail like a lifeline.
His ears grow even pinker. “Shut up.”
“Oh my God. You’ve thought about it. Dean Whitaker has thought about marrying me.” I’m delighted, practically bouncing.
“I’m leaving.” He tries to step away, but I hold on.
“You live here.” I tighten my grip on his shirt.
“Then you’re leaving.” But he’s not trying very hard to escape.
“I live here too. Or I will soon enough.” I grin at him, victorious. “Admit it. You’ve pictured it.”
“I’ve pictured nothing.” He’s lying, and we both know it.
“Liar.” I poke him again for good measure.
He sighs, defeated, his shoulders dropping. “Fine. Maybe once.”
“Where?” I’m leaning in now, invested.
“Poppy—” He tries to dodge, but I’m relentless.
“Where was our hypothetical wedding that you definitely didn’t think about?” I’m not letting this go.
He sighs again, longer this time. Defeated. “The courthouse. Simple. Just us and whatever witnesses we could grab. No fuss. No chaos. No goats.”
“That’s…” I pause, genuinely touched. “Actually really sweet.”
“It’s practical.” He’s trying to maintain his composure.
“It’s perfect.” I kiss his pink ears, feeling them heat under my lips. “But there would definitely be a big reception. Fairy lights. All our family and friends.” I’m grinning now because I can actually picture it.
“We’ll negotiate.” He sounds resigned to his fate.
“We’ll do no such thing.” But he’s smiling, and I know I’ve won.
I go back to my sketches, but I’m smiling too hard to focus. Three weeks. Cross-country road trip. New life. New city. New everything.
With a man who loves me, a dog who needs therapy, and a future that’s completely uncertain.
I’ve never been happier.
Or more terrified.
But that’s okay. We’ll figure it out.
Together.