It Had to Be Him

Book 2: Love on the Vine

by Adib Khorram

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance; LGBT & Pride; Second Chance Romance

Synopsis

A steamy, swoony second-chance romantic comedy from the USA Today bestselling author of I'll Have What He's Having! 

Release date: September 2, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

Ramin was sweating.

He’d picked the Brazilian steakhouse for their two-year anniversary dinner because it was Todd’s favorite place on the Plaza. Todd had been trying to increase his protein intake the last few months. And hitting the gym harder. It showed in the way Todd’s dress shirt hugged his shoulders.

Granted, Ramin loved Todd’s shoulders—since Todd had moved in eight months ago, Ramin drifted off to sleep with his head against their solid warmth every night (not to mention he enjoyed holding on to them as Todd fucked him)—but he’d loved them before, too, back when Todd wasn’t so worried about their definition or the occasional stretch mark. Honestly, Ramin had enough body dysmorphia for the both of them.

That was for Ramin to work out with his therapist, though.

Tonight had to be special. So he’d picked Todd’s favorite place for dinner. Even though every time he came here, he got the meat sweats. The sticky feeling on his forehead made him feel like a teenager again, fighting off acne; the dampness under his armpits was worse. Was it showing through his shirt?

Bad enough he was sweating with anxiety about asking Todd such a life-changing question, but meat sweats, too? He really should’ve planned this better.

“What’re you thinking?” Todd asked, a smile lighting his features.

Ramin must’ve been staring. But he couldn’t help it!

Todd was handsome, his well-kept beard sharpening his jawline, his brown eyes perpetually cheery. He’d gotten golden highlights in his coiffed brown hair about a month ago, which gave Ramin flashbacks to high school, but like Ramin, Todd hadn’t been out as a teenager, and everyone deserved a second adolescence. The highlights made Todd happy, so they made Ramin happy.

Todd even had the kind of cute button nose that only white guys ever seemed to get. Ramin’s own nose was large, like most Iranians. He had horrid visions of a bead of sweat dripping down the length of it but stuffed them down as he gave Todd a smile of his own.

“Just thinking about how handsome you are.”

“Aw, babe.” Todd’s smile deepened, but then he shifted in his seat. “Sorry. I’ll be right back.”

He set his napkin next to his plate and stood. Todd’s wineglass was mostly untouched—he’d cut back as part of his diet, so much that he rarely even had a glass with dinner anymore—but he’d downed four glasses of ice water and put away a lot of steak.

“I’ll be here,” Ramin said, reaching for his own wine, a nice if uninspired Malbec. He assumed. His taste buds weren’t working tonight because of the nerves. He wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between a bottle of Screaming Eagle—a California cab that went for $2,500 a bottle—and some Boone’s Farm at this point.

(Not that he’d ever had Boone’s Farm. He had been solidly Team Franzia in college, a secret shame even his best friends didn’t know about.)

Nevertheless, Ramin finished his glass. They called it liquid courage for a reason, right?

He flagged down their server.

“Could I get the champagne now, please?”

Their server—a young, russet-skinned woman with her hair tied back in a ponytail—nodded and disappeared toward the bar.

Ramin checked his pocket for the eight hundredth time. When he’d started planning this night months ago, he’d envisioned sticking the ring in the top of Todd’s favorite dessert, a crème brûlée, but Todd wasn’t eating dessert these days. And the thought of dropping the ring into the bottom of a champagne glass alarmed him, because what if Todd didn’t notice and choked on it?

So he’d just have to hold the ring out and ask.

He could do this. He wasn’t really worried that Todd would say no, after all. They were in love. They’d been together for two years. They’d moved in together and everything was going well.

They were happy and perfect.

So why did his heart keep fluttering?

(Well, he did know—those same old insecurities, creeping up again. But also: therapy.)

Todd returned, scooting in so their knees brushed. Ramin grazed his foot along Todd’s ankles and smiled, and he tried not to be annoyed when Todd shifted in his seat and moved his foot away.

Todd could be weird about PDA sometimes, but what gay man didn’t have the occasional worry on that front?

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.” Todd cocked his head to the side. “What’re you smiling about?”

Here we go.

“I wanted to ask you something, actually…” Ramin swallowed and looked into Todd’s eyes. They were crinkled up a bit, giving him that little divot between his eyebrows that he kept wanting to Botox away. But Ramin loved that little divot. He loved those crinkles. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately, and our future, and… well…”

His hand shook as he pulled out the box and opened it. The noise of the restaurant seemed to die away around him, until they were in a perfect little bubble.

“I was wondering if… you’d want to get married?”

Okay, that came out super weird. Todd’s divot turned into a full-on furrow.

Ramin cleared his throat, fought the flush rising up his neck, and pulled his foot out of his mouth to do this properly.

“What I meant is: Will you marry me, Todd?”

Todd stared at the ring in the box, a plain gold band, because gold always looked good against Todd’s skin. It wasn’t so favorable against Ramin’s, but he had a matching one tucked away anyway. That way everyone would know they were a pair.

Ramin studied Todd’s face. He wanted to remember this moment forever. Except…

Todd’s eyebrows were still furrowed. Ramin waited for them to rise, for Todd’s face to break into a beaming smile, for him to laugh and lean closer and tell Ramin yes.

Instead, that furrow softened into something more like…

Oh God.

Pity.

“I… I’m sorry, Ramin. But no.”

No?

Ramin’s brain did a hard reset.

“All right, gents, let me just open this for you…” The pop of the cork sounded like a cannonball, shattering all his dreams for the future. Ramin started in his chair. He hadn’t even noticed their server returning.

Todd gave a tight-lipped White People Smile as their server poured the champagne. Ramin couldn’t even muster that. His eyes were burning, and he told himself it was the smoke from the grill and not the urge to cry.

All at once he remembered the part in Legally Blonde where Warner dumped Elle instead of proposing, also in the middle of a restaurant, and for a second he wanted to laugh, because he loved that movie, but he’d never thought of himself as an Elle.

Their server finally retreated. Ramin didn’t touch his champagne; neither did Todd.

“No?” The word felt like sand in Ramin’s throat.

Todd shook his head. “Look. I’ve been feeling this for a while, but…”

He pursed his lips. “Things have become stale between us. Don’t you think this has kind of… run its course?”

“Run its course?” Ramin croaked. Shit, now there were tears, and Ramin’s nose always ran when he cried, so this was about to get ugly. “But I love you.”

Todd sighed. “I love you too, Ramin, but…”

Todd bit his lower lip. Ramin always liked to nibble on it when they kissed. Liked how he could feel it curl into a smile, because that meant Todd liked it, too.

“I want more out of life than just… moving in together and getting married, date nights every Tuesday, dinner with your friends every Thursday. Lately things have just been so…”

Ramin loved date night. He loved dinner with his friends.

He loved his life with Todd. And now Todd was throwing it all away?

“So what?” Ramin asked around a sniffle. He reached for his napkin—a black fabric one. It was going to be super gross when he was done emptying his tear ducts and sinuses into it. He’d have to make sure to leave an extra-large tip. And what was he supposed to do with all this champagne they weren’t going to drink? Did they have to split the bill now?

Ramin blew his nose, wiped at his eyes.

“So what?” he asked again.

Todd sighed and looked down at his hands for a second before meeting Ramin’s gaze.

“Boring.”

Ramin swiped away his tears with the back of his hand before he opened the door.

“Hey,” Farzan said, squeezing past the storm door.

“We come bearing wine,” his boyfriend David said behind him. “And cheese.”

Farzan held up a plastic Hy-Vee bag. “And peanut butter cookies.”

Farzan Alavi was Ramin’s best friend. They’d known each other nearly all their lives, ever since elementary school, when they’d been the only Persian kids in second grade. And then Arya, their other best friend, had come along in fifth grade, and they’d been inseparable ever since.

Farzan was handsome, with an elegant Persian nose, rich sepia skin, and warm brown eyes. He took in Ramin’s sorry state—red nose, swollen eyes, untucked shirt—and pulled him into a hug.

As soon as Ramin had left the restaurant—alone, since Todd called a Lyft and went to go stay with his brother until they could figure out how to disentangle their lives—he’d texted the group chat.

It had taken his friends all of thirty minutes to rearrange their evenings. He needed them, so they were here.

David Curtis, Farzan’s boyfriend of nine months, was a new addition to the group (and the chat—he’d finally been added). He was a handsome Black man with impeccable fashion, impeccable taste in wine, and—since he loved Farzan—impeccable taste in men.

Much better taste than Ramin’s, it turned out.

Farzan let Ramin out of the hug and steered him toward the kitchen.

“Babe, can you open the wine?” he asked David.

“On it.”

Ramin’s eyes burned. Babe. Ramin didn’t have anyone to call babe anymore. Or honey. Or sweetie. Or love. Or pumpkin.

Not that he’d ever called Todd pumpkin.

“You like Barolo, right?” David asked, quirking a slitted eyebrow.

Ramin cleared his throat. Crying always made him hoarse. “Love it.”

“Good.” With practiced hands—David was a master sommelier, after all—he opened the bottle, pulled down four of Ramin’s glasses, and poured four perfectly equal servings.

Farzan pressed a glass into Ramin’s hand, but Ramin didn’t drink.

“We have to wait for Arya. I don’t want to tell this twice.”

As if on cue, Ramin’s doorbell rang again—only for Arya to jiggle the handle and let himself in.

“Sorry. There was traffic on the Broadway bridge. I thought the new one was supposed to make it better.”

Arya was still dressed in a black power suit, his nails painted gold, his head freshly shaved (not that there was much to shave, since he’d gone bald at twenty-five), though he’d loosened his tie. When Ramin texted, Arya had thanked Ramin for giving him an excuse to duck out of the charity gala he was working. And then immediately apologized and promised to be there in thirty minutes.

Arya kicked his shoes off and pulled Ramin into a hug with one arm, while the other stretched toward David for a glass of Barolo. Ramin choked out half a laugh.

“Okay. Tell us everything.”

They settled around the navy-blue sectional in the living room. Todd had spotted it at Nebraska Furniture Mart to replace Ramin’s old, cushy—and probably boring—couches. The sectional looked stylish, but the cushions were hard as rocks. Ramin’s ass was numb by the time he reached the story’s end.

“And then,” Ramin said with a final sniffle. “He said I was too boring.”

“Fuck Todd,” Arya interjected for the fifth time that night.

Ramin let out a shuddering sigh and sipped his Barolo. A long-ass sip. It was good wine—David always brought good wine—but wasted on him when he’d been crying so hard he could barely taste the notes of chocolate and leather and blackberry. All he wanted to do was get drunk. Get drunk and forget tonight ever happened.

Ramin wasn’t a heavy drinker, but fuck it. Fuck his liver, too. Fuck his life.

And fuck this sectional. His ass had gone from numb to full of prickling stabs. He slid down onto the plush Persian carpet, the one he’d inherited from his parents. He ran a hand across the soft fibers and stared into his nearly empty Barolo.

“Am I really that boring?” he asked, because he couldn’t say what was really spinning through his mind. Too fat. Too ugly. A thousand awful things men had said to him over the years, things he’d said to himself, things he’d spent lots of time and money on therapy to unlearn.

Hm. When you thought about it, wine was really just after-hours therapy. Ramin drained his glass.

“What? No,” Farzan said. He copied Ramin, sliding to the floor, only to bang his elbow on the angular coffee table Todd had picked to go with the sectional. “Fuck.”

“Sorry,” Ramin hiccupped. He’d been so happy when Todd had agreed to move in with him. He thought it was a step toward their happily-ever-after. And it had been, for a while, even if Todd had questionable taste in furniture. Ramin had wanted it to be their house, not just his. He’d lived alone ever since he bought the place at twenty-five, paid for with his inheritance from his parents.

And then Todd had come along. And Ramin had thought they were going to be forever.

But he was too boring.

Ramin sniffed and wiped at his eyes, but not before he caught the glance Farzan shot David’s way, the sad little smile David shot back.

David had a beautiful smile, bright white teeth against midnight brown skin, his dark eyes full of light. He was so smitten with Farzan that if Ramin didn’t love his best friend so much, he would’ve been jealous.

He still was a tiny bit jealous.

David turned that smile on him, gesturing for Ramin’s empty glass.

“You’re absolutely not boring, dude,” Arya said. And then he muttered again, “Fuck Todd.”

Farzan nodded. “Can I be honest?”

Ramin shrugged. His heart was already in a million pieces. What did one more piece of bad news matter?

“I think Todd’s going through some sort of…” Farzan pressed his lips together, ran his free hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. It was mostly black—though there were a few grays—wavy, and longer than Ramin’s. Ramin always kept his short and neat and “professional” for work. Boring.

No one would ever call Farzan boring. In addition to being Ramin’s best friend, he was a killer chef. He’d taken over his parents’ Iranian restaurant, the only one in Kansas City, when they’d decided to retire. He’d even expanded its success, with Ramin and Arya as his silent partners.

Farzan had made Shiraz Bistro the beating heart of Kansas City’s Iranian community.

Ramin just did marketing.

David returned with Ramin’s glass and another opened bottle. Ramin took a sip (okay, a gulp) and barely tasted anything, though he nodded at David as if he had.

“It’s good, thanks.” He turned back to Farzan. “Some sort of what?”

“Midlife crisis?” Arya scoffed before Farzan could answer. He slid onto the carpet on Ramin’s other side, bumping Ramin’s shoulder and threatening a spill.

“Shit, sorry.”

Ramin shook his head. He had plenty of experience getting wine stains out of the carpet. Plenty of sex stains, too. Last winter, when he and Todd had gotten snowed in, they’d pushed the horrible coffee table out of the way and fucked on the carpet. And missed the towels.

Ramin flushed at the memory. His skin was much lighter than Farzan’s or Arya’s—his family probably had some Russian several generations back, which would also explain the green eyes he’d shared with his dad—and he could never hide a blush.

But he pushed the thought away. Like Arya said: Fuck Todd.

“What do you mean, midlife crisis?” he asked.

“The highlights? Going to the gym all the time? The Lasik?” Arya gestured around his eyes. “He can’t handle the creeping footsteps of his impending forties.”

Ramin bit his lip. There may have been a bit of truth there. Todd’s skincare routine had gotten intense the last few months.

“Maybe,” Ramin admitted, going for another sip and finding his glass empty. Wait, was this his second or third? He’d lost count. But the bottle still seemed full. He held his glass out and David, good friend that he was, poured out another.

“Drink this first,” Farzan said, pressing a glass of water into Ramin’s other hand.

Ramin chugged it, annoyed that he had to double-fist. Water was boring. Like him.

He sniffed a few times, sipped his new wine. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Farzan and Arya making eyebrows at each other, like they were telepathically arguing. When Arya finally shrugged, Ramin wasn’t sure if it was because he’d won or lost. But Farzan gentled his voice. “I’ve got to say something.”

Ramin’s stomach flipped. He didn’t like the sound of that.

Farzan took a drink of his own wine, swallowed, and set the glass on the coffee table. He ran a hand through his hair, blew out a breath, then straightened his spine and met Ramin’s eyes.

“Look,” he said. “You know I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Ramin said. Ramin was an only child, but Farzan and Arya might as well have been his brothers. They were ride or die.

“But I was never that crazy about Todd.”

Ramin sputtered. That didn’t make any sense. He’d been with Todd for two years. They had dinner with Farzan and Arya every week. David too, now.

He blinked and found his voice. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you were happy! And that mattered more than anything. It still does. But, Ramin…” Farzan squeezed Ramin’s shoulder and gently shook him. “I don’t know how anyone can look at you and call you boring. He was an asshole. And you deserve better than that.”

Ramin squeezed his eyes shut.

“What if he’s right, though? What if I am boring?”

“Dude.” Arya grabbed his other shoulder. “You’re Ramin Fucking Yazdani. You’re awesome.”

Ramin shook his head and drained his glass again.

On Farzan’s other side, David cleared his throat. When had he slid down to the floor? He was snuggled up against Farzan, their fingers twined together on the carpet. Ramin thought of Todd’s fingers. Of the ring he’d so carefully picked out and sized. It was… somewhere.

Who the fuck cared.

“Huh?” Ramin asked. David had said something.

“Not to be the bad guy, but I think we’d better cut you off.”

“I’m fine,” Ramin said, shaking his head, but the room took a while to catch up. “Oh. You’re probably right.”

“Just looking out for you,” he said softly. Ramin liked David a lot, liked how perfect he was for Farzan, but he was still new to the group, and sometimes he acted a little intimidated by how close Ramin and Farzan and Arya were. Which maked sense. Made sense.

Ramin was definitely drunk.

“Thanks,” Ramin said. “I like you, David. I’m glad you and Farzan love each other.”

Farzan and David looked at each other then. Ramin could feel the love radiating off them like a furnace.

He used to have that with Todd. Didn’t he?

He did. He knew he did. He’d loved Todd with his whole heart. And Todd had loved him, too. Once.

Not anymore, though. What hurt the most was, he’d never know exactly when he’d lost Todd’s love. What the tipping point had been. Which new wrinkle or new pound or new ache or new nose hair had soured things between them.

Fuck, he didn’t want to think about this anymore. He was so tired of thinking. So tired in general.

“I’m going to bed,” Ramin announced, trying to stand but falling back against the couch. “Oops.”

“I got him.” Arya tucked an arm under his shoulder.

“You do,” Ramin said. “I’m glad you’re my friend. I’m glad all of you are my friends.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Arya led Ramin upstairs—had the staircase always been this wobbly?—and maneuvered him toward the bathroom.

“At least brush your teeth,” he said. “I’ll—Shit, is that all Todd’s?”

Arya pointed toward the eighteen bottles of skincare on the right side of the sink.

Ramin nodded.

“Please tell me we can get rid of his shit. And that awful sectional. I think I broke my coccyx.”

Ramin swallowed back a sob. “We still have to work all that out.”

“Fuck Todd,” Arya said for the bajillionth time, though this time he just sounded resigned. “I’ll get you some more water. Brush your teeth.”

Ramin did, laughing when he spat and the water turned purple. He looked in the mirror. His eyes were puffy, nose red, tongue wine-stained no matter how much he scrubbed.

He was a mess. A boring mess.

Arya returned with the water. Ramin downed it, only spilling a little on himself. He handed the glass back and flopped onto his bed.

Arya sat next to him.

“You gonna sleep like that?”

Ramin tugged down his shirt where he felt a draft on his stomach.

“I’m fine.”

Arya didn’t move, though.

“Really. I’m okay. I don’t feel sick. Just sleepy.”

“Okay. Love you, dude.”

“Love you, too.”

Arya left the door cracked behind him. The ceiling spun a bit as Ramin stared up at it. Now that he was actually lying down, he didn’t feel tired anymore; he felt hollow. Empty. Like his whole future had crumbled. And it had, hadn’t it?

He squeezed his eyes shut, but he was cried out. When he opened them again, the room took a moment to settle.

Ramin didn’t get drunk very often. He was thirty-eight now. Two glasses of wine was usually his limit. But the Barolo had been so good. Ramin loved Barolo. And Barbaresco. And Nebbiolo. And Chianti. And Brunello. And Amarone. And Pinot Nero. In fact, Italy was probably Ramin’s favorite wine country.

He’d always wanted to visit, but the time had never been right. He kept hoping work would send him there—SNK had an office in Milan, in fact. But he’d never gotten sent there, not even for short trips.

Ramin had planned to suggest it for their honeymoon. But that was never going to happen. Not anymore. Boring people didn’t get honeymoons.

Fuck Todd, Arya whispered in his ear. Not real Arya. The little Arya in a devil costume that lived over his shoulder sometimes.

Fuck Todd, the little Farzan in an angel costume agreed.

“Yeah. Fuck Todd,” Ramin muttered to himself. He wasn’t boring. He’d prove it to Todd. Prove it to everyone.

Prove it to himself.

He reached for his phone, but it was… well, probably downstairs somewhere. He couldn’t remember. His iPad was on the nightstand, though. He punched the wrong passcode in twice, giggling at his clumsy fingers, before he finally unlocked it.

How much did flights to Italy cost, anyway?

Noah kept his voice even, trying to reason with his son as he pulled into his ex-wife’s driveway, but Jake was in no mood to be reasonable.

“You promised!” Jake wailed. His face was all red and scrunched up.

“Jakey,” Noah said, holding in a sigh. He hadn’t promised. He hadn’t even said yes. He’d said We’ll see. But lately Jake had been treating every slightly positive answer like some sort of blood oath.

This time, it was having McDonald’s for dinner.

But tonight was Angela’s night, and she had already planned for dinner. Noah couldn’t tell Jake that, though, without making Angela into the villain who’d said no. So he was stuck.

“Sometimes plans change.”

Surprises happened. Things came up. Marriages fell apart.

That was life.

“Come on, your mom’s waiting.”

Jake huffed and got out of the car, running for the garage door to punch in the code. Noah took a deep breath and followed more slowly.

It still felt weird, sometimes—well, all the time—coming to Angela’s house. It had been their house, before the divorce. Angela had suggested selling it and splitting the money, but Noah had insisted she keep it. She’d been the one paying the mortgage, after all. She’d been the family breadwinner, being a partner in a law firm, while it had made more sense for Noah to stay home with Jake.

Now he had his own little apartment, and he’d taken up carpentry again, but he insisted Angela keep their old house so Jake could have at least a little stability.

By the time Noah made it to the kitchen, Jake had already blazed through the house and up to his room.

“Hey, Noah,” Angela said, pulling him in for a side hug without spilling her coffee.

Angela Russo—she’d kept her name when they got married for professional reasons, so she’d never had to change it back after the divorce—was a head shorter than Noah, soft and fat, with her brown hair pulled back into a tight power ponytail. She had mischievous blue eyes and a bright smile she’d passed on to Jake—when he wasn’t mad about McDonald’s, at least.

“Hey.” He dropped the hug and looked around the kitchen. It was still more or less decorated the same, though Angela had bought a set of purple-enameled cookware after Noah moved out. A big Dutch oven was on the stove, bubbling away with something that smelled…

Good might’ve been too generous, but edible, certainly.

Noah had always been the cook in the family. He’d had to learn early on.

“Go ahead,” Angela said, resigned.

“What?”

“Say it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Angela quirked an eyebrow. Noah shook his head and pressed his lips together.

Finally, she laughed. “I was trying a new recipe. I don’t think it’s a good one.”

“Well, Jake did say he wanted McDonald’s tonight.”

“Is that why he was in a huff when he came in?”

“He claimed I promised him.”

“Nine going on fifteen,” Angela sighed. “Where’s this coming from all of a sudden?”

“No idea.” Noah wished he did. He’d been talking it over with his therapist, but she thought it was probably just a phase. “Well, I better go…”

“Actually,” Angela said. “Are you free?”

“Why?” Noah asked. Though he was. Truthfully, the night life of a divorced thirty-eight-year-old dad wasn’t particularly thrilling.

“Want to grab some Mickey D’s and have dinner with us? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

She said it lightly, but there’s something I want to talk to you about was never good. It usually led to Jake has the stomach flu or I ran into your mother at the grocery store or I accidentally pulled the car into the garage too far and hit the freezer.

One time it was I don’t think we should be married anymore.

But it sounded important, either way.

“Sure. I’ll go grab it.”

“Best. Day. Ever!” Jake pronounced before stuffing way too many fries into his mouth.

Now that he wasn’t mad at the whole world (but mostly Noah), he was back to smiling and laughing.

Jake had his mom’s smile—and her brains, thank goodness—but he had Noah’s big brown eyes, and Noah’s peachy complexion, and Noah’s thick hair, though Jake’s was more chestnut than black.

He also had a missing front tooth. He wedged a fry in the gap and showed it off. “I’m a narwhal!”

Noah snorted and mussed Jake’s hair. When Jake wasn’t raging against the unfairness of the world, he was Noah’s favorite person.

Well, he was Noah’s favorite person all the time, but it was certainly easier to get along with him when he wasn’t being a nine-year-old misanthrope.

After dinner, Jake wanted to go play with his Lego sets, but Angela asked him to wait.

“I’ve got something to discuss with the both of you.”

Noah’s burger turned into a spiky lump in his stomach. He swallowed. “Sure.”

“You know how we always talked about going to Italy? Back when we were married?”

Angela’s grandparents were Italian. Though they’d raised their kids—including Angela’s dad—in Kansas City, they’d moved back to Italy long before Angela and Noah had even met.

He and Angela had always talked about visiting them, with Jake, too. He was their first great-grandchild.

It never happened, though.

“Well, I think we should.”

“Should what?” Noah asked. She wasn’t seriously suggesting…

“I think we should go.”

“To Italy?” Jake asked. “Do they have m. . .