I was such a mess while Dominic was in a coma that I couldn’t handle the bookstore. It took me a week just to step inside after the shooting. By then, the club had already taken care of the cleanup and replaced my shattered window.
Mindfuck poached Petunia — or Petty, as he calls her — from the local gas station. She’s happy to be out of night shifts, and I’m happy because, breakdown aside, she showed up exactly when I needed her. Temperance is helping me launch the bookstore online, and I was going to need extra help when that happened anyway.
I’m about to slam my laptop shut and leave all that numbers mess for another day, when the door opens and Dominic strides inside.
His steps are slow, but it’s obvious he’s already so much stronger than he was just a week ago.
I’m on my feet instantly, already rounding the desk to meet him.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, pleasantly surprised.
The last time I checked his tracker, he was at the clinic for PT.
“It’s time for your lunch break,” he murmurs, his arm sliding around my waist before he pulls me in for a kiss. “I missed sharing a sandwich with you.”
He smiles down at me, lifting a paper bag between us.
I grin, wrapping my arms around him. “I already brought one.”
“Then we’ll swap,” he says, his smile widening. “See whose is better.”
I snatch the bag from him and drop into one of the chairs, delicious anticipation running through me.
“Did Mama make it?” I ask, pulling the food out of the bag. I pause, raising an eyebrow. “Or Pops?”
Depending on his answer, I’ll have to adjust my expectations. Pops makes the weirdest combinations — sometimes they’re amazing, sometimes they’re a total miss.
He chuckles, taking a seat across from me and stretching his legs out until they reach under my chair. I absently trap one of his legs between mine and push the lunch bag I packed this morning toward him.
“I made it,” he says, ignoring the food.
Damn. I’m in for a treat. Still, I frown down at the sandwich. It’s chicken parm. Homemade. This wasn’t thrown together, it took time.
“Dominic, you know you’re supposed to rest after PT. Your therapist said so.” I aim for my best scolding tone. “You’ve been pushing your limits all week. Don’t think I don’t know you stupidly tried to ride your bike yesterday.”
He glares. “Who snitched?”
I wipe all expression from my face and shift my gaze to the wall behind my desk, absently tapping a finger against the surface. I’m not about to get Pops in trouble.
A sharp exhale leaves him, followed by a groan.
“As much as I love you fussing over me, I’m fine, adorable. I promise I’m not pushing too hard.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes and jerk my chin toward the unopened bag beside him. “Just shut up and eat my damn sandwich.”
He mutters something under his breath as he reaches for the bag, but I don’t pay attention. I start eating. And fuck me, he outdid himself. My stomach practically sings. My entire body hums with pure, tasty pleasure.
I’m so lost in my trip to Flavor Town that it takes me a second to register what he says next.
“Why do you have a dozen pomegranates taking over that entire chair?” he asks, brows pulling together.
I glance over my shoulder at the overstuffed armchair I use for temporary storage, then look back at him.
“It’s only ten, not a dozen,” I say, a little too sharply.
His eyebrows lift, clearly not expecting that tone. I huff and set my half-eaten sandwich on the desk. A mix of irritation and something softer, closer to shame, twists in my chest.
“I just… never had one,” I admit quietly, looking down at my lap before meeting his eyes again.
