Mortification burns my face, and I turn, tossing my head into the pillows, muffling mygroan.
I want to die.
Forcing myself, I shuffle out of bed and glance at myself in the mirror. My mascara is smudged, my hair looks like a small animal nested in it, and at some point in the middle of the night, I put on Dominic’s T-Shirt. Perfect. I look like the most stereotypical image of a one-night-stand.
Just as I’m about to spin around, my eyes snag on something shiny hanging around my neck.
It’s the necklace Dominic gave me on my eighteenth birthday.
The one I left behind on the day I broke up with him.
My fingers toy with the initials dangling from it, and for a moment I consider taking it off, but instead, for some reason, I can’t bring myself to do it.
I have two choices, I can stay in my room and hide, or grow a pair, go down there, and face him.
With some deep breathing and lots of dry swallowing, I make it a few steps before seriously considering getting back in bed and hiding until the end of time.
Dominic starts to whistle. He knows I’m awake, I’m not sure how. Maybe it’s my back and forth steps as I have a mini meltdown. Or maybe he can sense I’m awake because I’m utterly predictable.
If I go down and face the music, at the very least I need to look presentable. I strip out of Dominic's shirt, and definitely don’t inhale it a few times before tossing it on the bed. Rifling through my drawers, I pull out a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, something comfortable but not sloppy. I’m trying to not look like the train wreck I feel like. Once dressed, I finger comb my hair into a messy bun, swipe a makeup wipe under my eyes to clean up what’s left of the mascara.
I give myself one last look int he mirror. “Acceptable,” I mutter to the disheveled version of myself.
Dominic’s whistling continues, cheerfully grating on mynerves as I make my way down, each step feeling like I’m walking to my doom. My heart pounds in my chest as I inch down the staircase, pausing halfway to listen. The clink of a spatula against a pan. The scrape of a chair on the hardwood floor. The unmistakable low hum of Dominic singing.
Singing.
Singing in Spanish. It’s “Mujeres Divinas”by Vicente Fernández. His dad used to sing it all the time.
Suddenly, my reaction—more like overreaction—feels silly. We’re both adults, and we can handle it like adults. It was nothing. No big deal.
I square my shoulders and take the last steps down, rounding the corner into the kitchen like I don’t have a care in the world.
Dominic’s back is to me as he crumbles the chorizo, still singing quietly to himself, his shoulders swaying slightly. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a fitted greenT-shirt. His muscled back is clearly defined through the cotton, and my fingers itch to touch the skin underneath, to drag my nails down it.
Life is incredibly unfair because even casually dressed he can look likethatwhile I still feel like a raccoon caught in a dumpster fire.
He turns as I step into the room, spatula in hand, and flashes me a grin so dazzling I nearly turn around and run straight back upstairs.
“Morning, queirda mía.” His voice is way too chipper for someone who watched me masturbate just a few hours ago.
I narrow my eyes at him, trying to play it cool. “I thought we talked about not calling me that.”
“Why not?” He shrugs, scooping chorizo con huevo on a plate. “You didn’t seem to mind it last night.”
I freeze, my face burning hotter than the stove. “Oh my God, shut up.”
His grin only grows. “Relax. I’m only teasing. We don’t have to talk about it. Yet.”
“Or never,” I mumble, slinking over to the coffee maker, desperate for caffeine to dull the embarrassment clawing at my insides.
He sets the plate on the island and leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his annoyingly broad chest. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”
I whip around to glare at him. “I’m not embarrassed. I was drunk and it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” I shrug to add how much I really don’t care about the whole thing. Easy breezy.
“You know it’s a crime to lie to a member of law enforcement, might have to cuff you for that,” he says and then hits me with a wink.
“Does that line work on all the girls?” I pour the coffee aggressively, willing myself to not make eye contact.
