Chapter 20 Dominic
Dominic
Hannah’s shoulders sag as I pull to a stop in her driveway and cut the engine.
Tonight was fantastic. We danced and sang and had a few drinks at Honky Tonk Parade, but now it’s over.
Her bare shoulder sticks out of her sweet purple top, goose bumps peppering the soft skin. “Cold?” I ask, my quiet voice ricocheting around us like a gunshot in the silent car.
Her head moves up and down in the moonlight, and I reach to my back seat to pull out one of my button-down flannels. She takes it gratefully, shrugging it on, and I get the strangest twang of satisfaction. Damn, she looks good in my clothes. Soft and small and delicate.
Neither of us moves or says anything for several moments, spellbound or something.
“Thank you for tonight, Dom,” she finally says, breaking the tension.
“Seriously. I haven’t done anything like that in .
. . I don’t even know how long. It felt really good.
Really normal.” She laughs a little. “I didn’t even think that was possible anymore, but I don’t know.
I feel renewed. Like maybe I’m ready to take on more. ”
Instantly, a visual of her giggling and smiling as I twirled her around onstage pops into my mind. Seeing Hannah let loose tonight was just about the most beautiful sight I’ve witnessed in what feels like forever.
“I had fun, Han.” Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun with a woman. “I’d be happy to take you out anytime, Karaoke Cowgirl.”
“Oh my God.” She bursts into the cutest peal of giggles. “I still can’t believe you have this whole other dancing, singing, cowboy-hat-wearing persona!”
I shrug. “Every moment can’t be the job, you know? There’s more to this whole spinning planet than that.”
Her lips curl into a smile, and for a moment, I swear time slows. Her smile isn’t just beautiful; it’s radiant. The kind of smile that makes you want to do anything—be anything—just to keep it on her face.
The kind of smile that makes you want to kiss her.
Our eyes lock for a long moment, the universe narrowing to the two of us. Her chest moves up and down in fast waves, and my heart races to match it. I think almost exclusively about leaning forward and taking her mouth with mine. Frankly, I’m so fucking close to giving in to the urge it scares me.
The soft scent of her skin has my head filling with vanilla and cinnamon, and when she licks her lips nervously, I sway a little closer to her.
Her breath hitches, and I don’t miss the way her gaze dips ever so slightly to my mouth.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Everything about Hannah is beautiful.
Her brown eyes and her gorgeous hair and her perfect heart-shaped mouth.
Hannah isn’t just any woman. She’s special.
She’s kind and compassionate and selfless.
And even though she might think of herself as someone who isn’t capable of having fun, she is.
She’s wickedly funny and smart, and when she lets herself get loose, her smile is downright magic.
I’ve only known her for a short time, but I feel like I’ve known her all my life. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I only find myself wanting to know her more.
Her long lashes graze her cheeks as she blinks once and then twice, before reconnecting her gaze with mine.
My strength is fading, the will to keep things professional draining from my body by the second as we sit here.
My fingers tingle and my spine buzzes, and I’m so close to giving in to the urge to press my mouth to hers. So close to—
“Well, okay then,” she blurts in a rush, cutting my thoughts off at the knees. Almost as if struck by lightning, she jolts forward, spinning for the passenger door handle, and then climbs out.
I watch with unsteady breaths as she leans back into the door, but I don’t miss the flush of her cheeks. “Thank you. Again. I’ll remember this for a long time, Dom.”
I nod, just one herky-jerk of my chin. It’s all I can manage.
She shuts the door behind herself and hustles toward the house, and I sink into the seat, my head falling back and my eyes closing.
Fuck.
Sitting silently, I turn my gaze to the house and watch as lights pop on one by one, imagining her moving into the space and settling back into her routine. Settling back into business. Settling back into a world I don’t particularly fit into.
I take a deep breath and run my hand over the steering wheel, willing myself to start my car and drive away.
But a minute passes.
Then five more minutes.
And once I realize I simply don’t want to leave—knowing what my presence outside does for her state of mind—I kick my seat back a notch and close my eyes, getting comfortable.
If it means Hannah feels safe, I’ll be here every night.
7:00 a.m.
I wake to the sound of a car starting up, and Lovie waves as she pulls out of the driveway, the gentle glow of morning just lighting the sky.
I offer a wave and a smile back and adjust my seat from lying to sitting, yawning into my hand and stretching out the kinks in my neck. My sleep wasn’t deep. Hell, it wasn’t even restful. But knowing my loss was Hannah’s gain makes the sacrifice feel worth it tenfold.
The house is quiet, but since I still have Hannah’s battery in the back seat, I decide to fulfill my promise before heading home.
Even though exhaustion tugs at my limbs, the thought of doing something for her is enough to push me into motion.
I snag a flannel button-down from the back, put it on, and climb out of my door.
With the driver’s seat folded forward, I grab the battery and then some tools from my supply bag in the trunk.
I walk slowly up the driveway to Hannah’s white Civic in front of the garage.
Luckily the driver’s side door is unlocked from Hannah’s efforts to start the car yesterday morning—an oversight I’m sure she doesn’t make often—so I pull it open and pop the hood.
I unscrew the panel above the battery and snap the plastic off, remove the leads from the terminals, and then pull the existing battery out and set it down on the concrete.
I pick up the other battery to switch it out, and just have it settled in its holder when the sound of the front door opening fills my ears.
Instantly, I push back from under the hood, expecting to see Hannah, a trill of unextinguishable excitement running the length of my spine.
Instead, Sherry steps out in her robe, nightgown, and slippers. After closing the door behind herself, she power walks straight toward my Camaro at the end of the long driveway, not even noticing me near Hannah’s car.
Shit.
Quickly, I wipe my hands on my jeans and run toward her, cutting in front of her and forcing her to a stop as gently as possible. The excitement is gone, replaced swiftly by concern.
“Hey, Sherry,” I greet her, leaning down a little to meet her unsteady gaze. “Where you headed?”
“Oh, Tony!” she exclaims after a few blinks. “I was just coming to find you.”
“Here I am,” I answer with a smile, hoping it’s sufficient to disarm her enough that I can get her back in the house. This isn’t my first time encountering this kind of situation, but with Sherry, it feels different. It feels . . . personal.
I know Hannah added a doorbell and an outdoor security camera to her already pretty thorough setup, but if she’s still asleep or in the shower, I don’t imagine that’s going to help very much right now. “Did you need something?”
“I wanted to talk to you about some case notes I’ve been mulling over.”
“Of course.” I nod. “Why don’t we go inside and take a look at them? We can discuss over breakfast.”
She rubs her hands together, excited. “That’s a good idea.”
She lets me take her arm, thankfully, so I can guide her back to the front door, which I make sure to lock behind us.
She leads the way up the stairs, and I follow, glancing around for Hannah as we walk into the kitchen.
Sherry heads for the coffeepot, and I redirect her, settling her on a stool instead and offering to make the coffee myself.
“That’d be great, Tony. Thanks.”
“So, what did you have in your case notes you wanted to go over?” I make quick work of putting a fresh pot on. “We’d better have something to tell Gibbs later, huh?”
Since I now understand that Sherry’s misnaming stems from her comfort TV show, NCIS, I’ve been slowly adding the show to my routine at night before falling asleep, trying to acquaint myself with the characters.
Not that you sleep much these days. Hannah occupies more of your thoughts than you’d like to admit.
“Honestly, Tony, I think we’re missing something when it comes to the killer.” Sherry sighs and shakes her head. “I’m just not seeing why he’d leave behind the murder weapon knowing that Abby’s going to have the tools to trace it.”
She reminds me so much of my grandma Harriet when her dementia had progressed significantly.
Her comfort was her birdhouses. She must’ve had thirty of them scattered throughout the yard, and my grandpa Louie made it part of their daily routine to check on the birdhouses and ensure they were stocked with seed in the morning, in the afternoon, and right before dinnertime.
Grandma Harriet had birdhouses. Sherry has NCIS. The thought tugs at something inside me, and before I know it, I’m wondering what it would be like for Sherry to meet my grandpa Louie—what it would be like for Hannah and her mother to meet my family.
Ironically enough, I’m due to go to my parents’ house later today to celebrate my grandfather’s birthday, and my imagination paints a picture of Hannah sitting at their long dining table with me—my mom doting on her, my grandpa giving her his normal sarcastic banter.
It’s ridiculous, of course. I’ve spent the last decade keeping women at arm’s length when it comes to my family. Too many times, I’ve seen the shift in someone’s eyes when they realize the kind of money that’s equated with my family. Equated with me. It’s never ended well.
Money does strange things to people. Hell, the only reason anyone at MNPD knows about the connection is because of Shane’s big mouth. Otherwise, I keep that part of my life locked away. I don’t want to be Dominic Dunn, heir to the Dunn Coffee throne. I want to be Dominic Dunn, period.
But Hannah . . . she doesn’t feel like someone who’d care about any of that. She’s real. Genuine. She’s someone who belongs at that ta—
“Earth to Tony,” Sherry comments, her voice filled with impatience and the power to pull my attention back. “Don’t you think we’re missing something with the killer? I mean, surely he knows how skilled Abby is.”
“Maybe he wasn’t planning on dealing with someone as good as Abby,” I answer, and surprisingly I actually know which NCIS character she’s talking about.
Clearly, my binge-watching is paying off.
“I mean, if he filed off the serial number, it’d take some real digging to figure out who the weapon belonged to. ”
Sherry sighs again, her mind very busy with solving whatever case she’s thinking about. I take out a pan from the cabinet next to the stove before rooting around in the fridge until I find some eggs and butter.
“Abby has the bullets to match for ballistics, and he didn’t police his brass,” Sherry states. “It just feels sloppy, and I’m wondering if it’s intentional.”
I shrug, clicking on the burner and scraping some butter in to heat up. “Maybe he’s just not that good.”
“No, Tony,” Sherry says with a tsk. “This is the fifth murder tied to this MO, and you guys would have caught him by now if he was just sloppy. This is calculated. I mean, maybe it’s a frame job like the one they tried to pull on you.”
“Yeah—”
“Sherry, who are you talking to?” Hannah asks, stepping out of her bedroom and pulling a sweatshirt over her head.
Her hair is messy from sleep, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves, and the sight of her stirs something deep in my chest. I clear my throat to call her attention, and her eyes broaden as they settle on me at the stove.
“Sorry,” I apologize softly with a shrug, and when her brow furrows in confusion, I find a gentle way to explain the morning’s events. “So . . . Sherry found me in the driveway this morning, wanting to discuss some case details.”
Her jaw gapes in shock. “S-she went outside?”
I nod.
Hannah’s eyes widen in fear first, then settle into sadness. And I know why—if I hadn’t been out there, there’s no telling what could have happened.
Seeing that sadness on her face is like a punch to the gut, rooted, of course, in my failure to protect her, even though emotional security isn’t in my job description.
I want to tell her something that’ll ease her anxiety about her mother’s safety.
Something that’ll help. But I know how things were for my grandpa Louie when my grandma’s dementia was progressing.
I know how he did everything in his power to keep her safe, to keep her happy, and to keep her living in her own home.
But even with around-the-clock care, things like what Sherry did this morning still occurred.
There’s no easy fix, no magic words that will make Hannah feel secure. This problem—the slow demise of the mother she once knew—isn’t one I can solve, no matter how hard I try.
Which fucking sucks.