“Provence has a vineyard and a hammock. Rome has a terrace and very good lighting for photos. Lake Como has a private dock and a strict no-paparazzi clause.”
She tried to resist the smile, but it was already happening. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yes, but charming. I’d make an excellent trophy boyfriend if you’d just let me.”
And because he was ridiculous, and charming, and absolutely hers now, she agreed.
The next week, they left the country. Harper suspected it had beenplanned with all the subtlety of a diplomatic extraction.
Their villa in Provence came with three bedrooms, two terraces, and one discreet housekeeper. The view stretched over golden fields and lazy vineyards, interrupted only by the occasional ruin that looked like it had personally witnessed Julius Caesar’s bad decisions.
Mornings were quiet. Harper wrote in the garden. Sebastian offered commentary. Afternoons were for goat cheese and market wandering and stolen kisses in the fruit aisle.
In Rome, things got less quiet.
They took separate flights, met in Trastevere, and slipped through the city like ghosts. Harper in sunglasses, Sebastian in linen and hubris. They kissed in bookstores. Hid in antique shops. Danced under café lights meant for someone else’s engagement.
There were fights, too. And forgiveness. And the kind of messy, joyful intimacy that looked nothing like a headline.
By the time they returned, the world hadn’t noticed they were gone.
Which, somehow, made it better.
They weren’t hiding, exactly.
They were just choosing not to be found.
But after three weeks back at home, as Harper reorganized her citations for the fourth time and Sebastian critiqued her coffee-making technique, something had shifted.
“We should tell them,” Harper said one morning, looking up from her laptop.
Sebastian paused, coffee mug halfway to his lips. “Tell who what?”
“Our friends. About us.” She gestured between them. “This. Whatever we’re calling it.”
“Are we calling it something?”
Harper leveled him with a look. “Sebastian. I’ve been living here for two months. My mail is forwarded here. I have a key. Your housekeeper knows my preferred snacks.”
“Mrs. Collins has excellent observational skills.”
“We’re in a relationship.”
Sebastian set down his mug with the kind of precision that suggested he was trying not to smile. “Are we?”
“Don’t make me throw something at you.”
“I’m just saying, it’s nice to hear you say it.” His smile was soft, genuine. “Yes. Let’s tell them.”
Harper felt a wave of relief. “Really?”
“Really. I’m tired of pretending you’re just my very attractive houseguest who happens to be extremely opinionated about my kitchen organization.”
“Your kitchen organization is a crime against humanity.”
“See? Opinionated.”
They decided on a dinner party. Nothing dramatic. Just their usual group, good wine, and what Sebastian insisted on calling a “soft launch” until Harper threatened to soft launch him off the balcony.