Page 178 of The Grump Next Door
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.
