Page 57 of Say My Name

CHAPTER 9

Elena

Dominic is waiting in the lobby when I step off the elevator at seven-thirty.

He turns at the sound of the doors, and his eyes move over the dark-blue dress I spent far too long choosing. The fitted bodice and low neckline felt daring in the privacy of my bedroom. Under his slow inspection, they feel like a mistake.

“Fuck.”

The word slips out, low and rough, and I feel it like a touch. My attempt at composure is a thin shield.

“Hello to you too.”

He walks toward me in a dark suit and an open-collared white shirt. “You’re wearing that to a crowded bar?”

“I didn’t realize you had approval rights over my clothes.”

“I don’t.” His eyes drop once more. “I’m still allowed to dislike everyone else seeing you in it.”

A little shock of pleasure moves through me, followed by the familiar prickle of a warning. He’s not claiming a right he doesn’t have, but he’s still claiming.

The driver holds the rear door open at the curb. Dominic places his hand at my back as I climb into the car, and the contact lingers even after he settles in beside me.

“My friends are going to ask questions,” I tell him.

“About me?”

“About why my boss picked me up for my birthday drinks. And why he’s looking at me like that.”

“You invited me.”

“To a group event.”

“Then I’ll be an excellent group-event guest.”

I look out the window before he can see me smile. The West Loop streets slide past the window, restaurants glowing and couples walking arm in arm toward whatever Saturday night has planned for them.

I feel him watching me.

“You’re going to have to stop doing that,” I say without turning.

“Doing what?”

“Staring.”

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “I am memorizing the dress.”

My stomach tightens. “Dominic.”

“I’m being honest. It’s a quality you claim to value.”

“It’s a quality I value in financial projections, not in the back of a dimly lit car while your hand rests against my thigh.”

He shifts beside me, and I catch the clean scent of his cologne, the same one that has haunted my fantasies for the last four years.

“My hand isn’t on your thigh.”

The correction is so calm, so perfectly measured, that I almost believe him. I look down.