I’ve never been out on the Cape. I’ve never been anywhere. Actually, I hadn’t been anywhere. Dominic is changing that, quickly. This couple-retreat experience feels so mature. Especially when, two and a half hours later, he pulls up at a charming bed-and-breakfast. It’s a white Cape Cod colonial with black shingles and overflowing flowerpots. It is beautifully restored and offers an outdoor restaurant in a gazebo overlooking the ocean. I grab Dom’s hand and squeeze.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“That I’m so going to put out tonight.” I’m only half joking.

He laughs, then gets out and pulls out our bags. He gives the valet the keys to his car. Then he opens the door for me, bowing chivalrously. “Wait till you eat the scones here. This is the OG Mrs. G’s favorite spot.”

“Mrs. G?”

“Mrs. Graves. Mom. Gemma. My parents used to take us here for a traditional summer holiday, every year without fail. Well, save for one or two, you know.”

When he was sick.

I feel even more overjoyed when we walk inside and the innkeeper, a woman named Dana, shows us to our room. Dom and I follow her, holding hands. I’m pretty sure I’m grinning like an idiot when I notice how she looks at us. With quiet approval. He tells her he’s been here many times, and she shares that this is her first year running the place. Before she leaves, she hands us a brochure. Dom takes it and promises to try at least two of the things she suggests we do. He pushes the door open. The room is small but gorgeous. With crown moldings, oriental carpets, and nautical art. The balcony overlooks a golf course.

Dom walks over to the nightstand and picks up a small wooden ship. A smile touches his lips. I wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my head against his back.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hello.”

“What’s up, the World’s Most Perfect Guy?”

“Please stop calling me that. You make me sound like Chris Evans, and he looks like a douche.” He puts the small woodwork down, turning around to gather me in his arms. “See that little ship I was holding?”

“Yeah.” I peek behind his shoulder to take a better look at it. It’s handcrafted, made from rosewood, with a long mast and yellow linen.

“When Seph and I were small and we used to come here, we would play with that ship all the time. In this specific room, actually. That’s why I asked for it. We had this thing where we always tried to steal the ship when it was time to leave, and my mom always caught us and made us put it back. It was exasperating.” He lets out a little laugh.

“And adorable,” I add.

“Sure. The first decade. We did it until I was a junior in college.”

Laughing, I kiss his chin. “And you couldn’t find a replica?”

He shakes his head. “Apparently, hundreds of hours are required to complete one model, and the design belongs to this woodturner who died decades ago. I found models that came close, but never an identical. And anyway, it’s about the nostalgia. This ship symbolizes cartwheels on the beach, lobster rolls, and Mom and Dad making out when they thought we weren’t looking.” He shudders comically.