“I hope next New Year’s is just like this one,” Dixon says, leaning in close and brushing a piece of confetti off my nose. “It will be,” I assure him over the noise, pressing my cheek against his and breathing in his minty, fresh scent, stronger now than the lingering notes of the cocktail. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever.” “Is that your way of telling me you’re my happy ending?” he asks, voice wistful and tender. I smile against his skin. “No, griniári mou. This is only our beginning.”
