My instinct is to pin this statement to a board and dissect it for educational purposes. What does she mean exactly? Is she happy we met? Glad I didn’t get married? Asking her to explain is precisely what I shouldn’t do.

But Solange surprises me and answers the very questions rattling around in my head. “I’m glad you didn’t marry Ella. She wasn’t the right person for you.”

I don’t want to be another guy in her life who makes promises he can’t keep. Empty declarations are just as meaningless to me as they are to her. So I settle on the truth. I can always give her that. “I’m glad you crashed my wedding too. And . . .”

“And what?” she whispers.

“And I’m so glad you’re in my life.”

I hope that’s enough. Judging by the way she squeezes my hand, I think it is.

Chapter Twenty-One

Solange

I wake up momentarily disoriented, the first rays of sunlight casting a golden glow over my surroundings. Oh hey, this is nice. I’m still in Dean’s arms. I could very much get used to being here. But a persistent knocking pulls me out of my pleasantly languid state.

“Dean,” I say, trying to tap him awake. “Someone’s knocking on your door.”

“No one’s knocking on the door,” he says behind me, not a trace of grogginess in his voice.

“Then what’s that . . . oh. How long have they been at it?”

“Not sure. They’re getting louder, though, so maybe it’ll be over soon?”

Louder doesn’t quite capture what’s going on here. They’re shouting. As if they’re two gladiators going head to head in a sex match. Penis loaded. Tits drawn. A fight to the (little) death. Awkwardness lodges in my chest and prepares to rest there permanently. “Um, your walls are super thin.”

“I suspected as much, but this confirms it.”

“Should we put on music or something? Maybe get up and move around so they know we’re stirring?”

“Good idea.”

He rolls away from me and stumbles out of bed. It’s my first true opportunity to see the way Dean looks before he transforms into Clark Kent—bedhead and all—and I can’t help sneaking a peek.

Well, the view is glorious. A veritable feast for my greedy eyes. Now I know Dean’s hair goes haywire overnight, and his already plump lips become even puffier in his sleep. As if that weren’t enough, his pajama shorts have the nerve to sit low on his hips, and he appears to be sporting morning, afternoon, and evening wood. This isn’t information I can just tuck away for safekeeping. No, this is mind-bending stuff here.

When I look up to examine his face, he’s staring at me. I’m so fucking busted, and I can’t even pretend otherwise. “Sorry.”