His laugh is low and deep and maybe it’s because I’m holding such a deliciously depraved book, but I can’t help the shiver that runs up my spine. “I’m not dismissing it, it’s actually a very good book.” He turns fully towards me, “Have you read it, Celeste?” he asks, his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip before he pulls it into his mouth, holding back a smile.
There he goes again, using my name.He doesn’t use my real name very often, preferringHoot,which I’ve never minded. I kind of like it, if I’m being honest with myself. But now, the way he calls me by my name feels taunting,tantalizing.It’s like every syllable runs over my spine like a finger trailing down my back. I shake off the feeling and focus my attention to the question asked.
“I have, actually.” I say, raising my chin a little.
“And?”
“I preferred the audiobook,” I confess, feeling a little squeamish under his scrutiny of literature choices. The fact that he bought the book, read it, and kept it on his shelf tells me enough. I walk over to put it back on the shelf. “So you havekinks then.” I remark as casually as I can while skimming other titles in his collection. Time to throw him off his game.
A loud clang clatters in the kitchen and my head snaps in his direction quickly to see Dominic fumbling with a frying pan. Luckily not the one he was cooking with. It’s my turn to bite my smile back. My chest inflates, feeling like I just won something,whatexactly I’m not sure but the victory fills me with more confidence. “Your bachelor pad is…bacheloring. Do you bring girls here often?” This question, although less jarring than asking about his kinks, somehow pulls my stomach into a knot as I wait for the answer.
“To rummage through my book collection?” he retorts, looking up from plating our eggs, breakfast sausages and toast. “No, I…um, don’t date a lot.” He averts his eyes, bringing our plates over to the couch to sit. I slowly spin in a circle just then realizing he doesn’t have any table or chairs for eating. He must read the question on my face because he settles into the corner spot of the couch saying, “Why need a dinner table if I never have guests?”
“Okay. But seriously, you’re hot, you’ve got your own place, whyareyousingle?” I ask. I know I’m being intrusive, I know I’m being obnoxious, but my brain won’t let the questions stay safely behind my teeth.
“Did you just call me hot?” he asks mockingly, wiggling his eyebrows at me. I laugh around a mouthful of eggs.
“Dominic!” I chide, then groan around my food, “God, even these eggs are good.”
“Thank you,” he says quietly, then takes a long slow inhale. Shit, maybe I hit a nerve with the past relationship talk.
He takes a moment to think, the corners of his mouth pulling downward and I can see something more…vulnerable, there. This is yet another side to him that I don’t think many people see.
With a big sigh his shoulders drop a little and he looks down at his plate, “I guess it’s just never been on my mind. I’ve had girlfriends growing up but nothing super serious. I didn’t have a lot of chances to date in high school because I was moved from foster home to foster home. I didn’t feel comfortable bringing someone back to a house full of misfits. Most people don’t understand anyway.” His head tilts downward and to the side, not meeting my gaze. He rolls his shoulders back as if his emotions were just water off a duck’s back.
“I’m sorry,” I say reflexively, reaching out a hand to put on his arm in empathy. “I kind of know what you’re going through. I went through a lot in my childhood that not a lot of other kids understood and I didn’t date much until I started here at RHU, really.” I shrug, pulling my hand away from his arm. His other hand thrusts out, catching mine in its grasp, my breath hitching at the contact.
He slowly looks up, meeting my eyes, as he says, “Thank you.” The anguish in his pale blue eyes rips something inside of me apart. My stomach hollows out as guilt worms its way through me. He still has no idea about my childhood, the hospital stays, my dad leaving us…
Here he is letting down his walls, letting me into his home. And here I sit, not willing to share any part of that life with him. Hell, he doesn’t even know that his matchmaking is all just an experiment for my medical school applications. Things feel different now though, it feels like there’s more at stake than just an essay question. Last night feels like a line crossed, the experiment muddled with real feelings that I can’t pin down, analyze, or confirm or deny a hypothesis from. It’s too messy.
This is why we couldn’t be together. He can’t be my knight in shining armour because he’s struggling with his own demons, and my baggage would be too much. It would drown him and he wouldn’t want any part of it. Just like Dad. The thoughtmakes my body stiffen, almost uncomfortably. I push my mind away from the thought and towards the superficial, like muscle memory. I redirect my mind back to my goal: medical school. For the legitimacy of my experiment, he doesn’t tick off the traits on The List. He doesn’t have goals in the way that I do, he isn’t in school pursuing anything, whereas my entire life has been wrapped around academics and my mom. Maybe,maybehe would understand what my Mom and I have been through, but as a friend. A matchmaker. Not as a romantic partner.
I pull back further from him, seeing a flash of loneliness or maybe hurt skate across his features, as if he expected me to recede from him. I mentally shake it off knowing it’s for the best.
Faking a smile, I throw my hands together in a mock clap, “Don’t thank me yet, maybe I could play matchmaker for you!” I poke him in the ribs, unable to stop myself from touching him. Denying the physical attraction I have for him is a futile endeavour even when my brain tells me realistically, we wouldn’t work.
I physically move my body away to carry our plates to the sink and wash up. He follows behind me as if tethered to me with string, going where I go. “You don’t have to clean, Hoot. It’s my apartment,” he says with a similar tone of false amusement.
Are we both pretending to be okay when we’re not okay? Why aren’t we okay?
I bury the thoughts deep into a box to crack open later, maybe never. I turn the faucet on quickly and begin sudsing up the dishes. “You cooked! I clean. Fair is fair.” He relinquishes, arms up in the air in surrender. Almost a real smile on his face this time.Good, I like when he smiles. He’s got a sexy smile.
I blanche slightly as the thought runs through my mind. I chastise my inner slut. She doesn’t think with her brain and as much as I’d like to give into her, one of us has to be realistic.
Just as I’m about to say something to fill the tense silence between us my phone pings from the coffee table. “Do you mind grabbing that for me?” I jerk my chin towards the cell phone, my arms elbow deep in bubbles. Dominic holds the phone out to me and then realizes my hands are still wet. “Just open it.” I say, praying it wasn’t Delaney saying something embarrassing.
“You sure?” he asks, eyebrows raised but holds up my phone towards my face.
“I consent.”My lips twitch in amusement as I glance towards my black screen, the facial recognition unlocking my phone swiftly. As soon as the words leave my lips Dominic’s eyes snap to mine. I still at the intensity I find in them. We hold each other’s stare for a heavy moment before he lowers his eyes to my phone and clears his throat, opening the text that I had already forgotten about.
“It’s Delaney,” he says quickly, then reads over the text. He blinks several times as his cheeks burn an endearing shade of pink.
My brows furrow, “What is it?” I ask, drying off my hands, as he shakes his head and quickly passes my phone to my pruney fingers.
I look down in confusion and read the text thread between Delaney and me:
Hi Delaney, it’s Dominic. Celeste is here at my apartment after getting her tattoo. She’s fallen asleep and I don’t want to wake her.
