Chapter 12
Irattle a pot just to be annoying. “You sure you don’t need help in there? There’s an awful lot of banging.”
From the laundry room I hear a loud clang, followed by, “You’re one to talk.”
“Hey, pots and pans are naturally noisy,” I call back. “You wouldn’t want me cooking with rubber pans. That’s just ridiculous.” More metallic thuds. “Are you supposed to be hitting that with a hammer?”
Then something that sounds suspiciously like a hammer hitting something—part metal, part… flesh, I’m guessing by the swearing.
“Fucking shit, motherfucker!”
I finish adding potatoes to the pot of boiling water on the stove and cover it before sliding around the corner in my socks. “You all right?”
There’s a solid thunk, and then Dom emerges from behind the washer, scowling, one hand rubbing the back of his head.
I wince. “Sorry. That last noise definitely sounded like a concussion. Want an ice pack?”
He steps in close, all heat, irritation, and grease-smudged gorgeousness. “Why don’t you kiss it better?”
“Since I can’t reach the top of your head, you’ll need to bend down,” I say sweetly.
He gives his knees a bounce, like he’s considering it, then he straightens with a tiny grimace.
“Sympathy kiss it is, old man,” I tease, and give him a quick peck on the lips.
“Watch it, little mouse,” he grumbles.
I give him a flirty wink. “Come on, you can help me grill. Grab the plate of steaks on the counter and follow me.”
“So, where’s Lucas? I haven’t seen him.”
“He somehow scored a dinner meeting with Jacob and Marcus.”
“Oh, what for?”
I pick up my saucepan and carry it with me. Dom, forever the gentleman he is, opens the door.
“I think Lucas wants to get away from California. He’s lived there his whole life. It fits him, but at the same time, it doesn’t. Anyway, Marcus and Jacob approached him about cooking for Matthew House. He said they were meeting to discuss details.”
We expanded the deck after Finn moved, so now it’s large enough for a table and a couple of chairs. Most importantly, my GrillHorn Master 6500 fits perfectly. It’s a forty-eight-inch grill with a partial flat top—my pride and joy. I enjoy cooking outdoors when I can, but it’s not often enough.
I set the saucepan on the flat top to start the bourbon garlic cream sauce, turning the heat to a low simmer.
Dom glances around. “I’m glad you’re using the space.”
“I’m glad you took time out of your schedule to help build it.”
He shrugs. “I know what it’s like living in a box; a deck’s an upgrade.”
I lay the steaks on the grill with a satisfying sizzle. “Sometimes I come out here in the morning with coffee and just sit. Salty air, seagulls plotting robberies… I know it’s hard to believe, with my death-goblin wardrobe, but I like being outside.”
He raises a brow.
“Okay, well, not on a ninety-degree, full-sun-and-humidity kinda day, but in fall. Come on, who doesn’t like fall?”
“You mean the two weeks a year of actual fall we get.”
“And what a glorious two weeks it is.” We both laugh. It feels easy. Too easy.
“So, you don’t want to live in the apartment over Ink Me for the rest of your life?” he asks, leaning on the railing.
I flip the steaks over, searing the other side, while I think about his question. It’s not the question of where I’ll live that throws me, it’s more about the future. When I think about it, I haven’t been doing much long-term thinking.
“I don’t,” I say. “I want open air and trees and water, not a stuffy apartment.” The char looks perfect, so I cut the heat, drop the lid, and set a timer on my phone.
“I’m realizing I haven’t thought much beyond the next step.
Culinary school, the cookbook… my horizon’s been about six inches in front of my nose for years. ”
“What do you see now?” Dom asks.
I stir the cream sauce in slow circles. Twenty-seven feels like I should own a five-year plan and a color-coded calendar.
Instead, there’s this quiet voice in my chest saying here, this.
Be where your feet are. LA moves like a treadmill someone else controls—faster, faster—and I’ve been running because everyone else is.
I don’t want to get ahead; I want to be present.
“A house,” I say, surprising myself with how easy it is to picture. “Trees. A big back yard, so maybe I can get a dog. Lazy Sundays.” I scrape the spoon along the bottom of the pan, listening to the small, satisfying sounds. “Something that feels like breathing room… and mine.”
“Alex will lose his mind picking the dog that fits your personality,” Dom says.
I narrow my eyes. “And what dog ‘fits my personality’ exactly?”
He stands up and walks over to me, pulling me in from around my waist. “Kinda bratty,” he muses. “Spontaneous zoomies. Surprisingly soft when someone feeds him.”
“Wow,” I say. “Calling me out. These stairs are like my own personal gym. My glutes have never looked better.”
“They are looking mighty fine,” he says, giving my ass a squeeze.
I suck in a breath. His touch sends shivers throughout my body, causing my dick to perk up and take notice. You know, I always knew I’d end up on my knees for him—I mean, duh—but I didn’t realize just how much he would be on his knees for me.
The timer on my phone going off is a much-needed distraction, because I could fall to my knees right now. “I hope you like your steaks medium. I’ll go mash the potatoes while these rest.”
“Can I help with anything?”
“I thought we could eat out here,” I say. “It’s looking to be a beautiful evening.”
“Yes, it is,” he murmurs. Something in his voice makes me glance up.
He’s not looking at the sky.
“Psh! Beautiful.” I swat the air in front of me and feel my cheeks heat. “Would you set the table?”
He doesn’t move.
Instead, he steps in, catching me by the hips, and pulls me flush to him. One big hand comes up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek like I’m something fragile he’s choosing not to break.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll start with this.”
The kiss is warm and slow—not the filthy, dizzying thing from earlier, but something that sinks in deeper. His mouth fits over mine like he’s memorizing, not testing. It steals the floor out from under me more than any dirty threat ever has.
When he pulls back, I keep my eyes closed for a beat too long.
Am I allowing myself to do this? Is this thing that was supposed to be light and fun turning into something else? Can I trust him? I know the answer to each one of those questions, and it scares the ever-loving fuck out of me.
I finally open my eyes. He’s still there, close enough that our breaths mingle, watching me like he’s giving me all the time I need to bolt and hoping I don’t.
I beat back the panic with sarcasm. “If you stare at me like that, I’m gonna start charging you an emotional labor fee.”
He huffs a laugh, relief flickering in his eyes, but not wiping out the warmth. “Put it on my tab.”
“Good,” I say, stepping away before I melt. “Interest rates are brutal.”
“I talked to Olly at Mazie’s party,” I say, popping the last bite of steak into my mouth. Perfect char, perfect sauce. I am a genius.
Dom hums. “Yeah?”
“I told him about the cookbook idea. He thinks it’s clever. Offered up his vanilla cupcake recipe.”
Dom’s brows shoot up. I nod.
“I can’t believe he’s giving that up. I mean, the bakery is called Vanilla House. And with Matthew…”
“Right? I’m just as surprised as you are.”
The door to the next apartment opens, and Finn steps out, clocking our table. Two plates, empty wine glasses, soft lighting, me and Dom sitting close.
“Damn! Did I miss dinner?” he jokes.
“It was so good,” I say, rubbing my stomach. “Steak with bourbon garlic cream sauce and mashed potatoes. A spiritual experience.”
“Amazing,” Dom adds, backing me up like the good almost-boyfriend he’s pretending not to be.
Finn groans. “You gotta make those potatoes for food night. The ones you had on special last week were so good. Creamy, whipped goodness.”
Dom mouths, “Food night?”
I mouth back, “Later.”
“I have a secret weapon,” I say, giving Dom a wink. And he rolls his eyes.
Finn shifts his weight, suddenly weird. “So, uh, how are you? This looks like an intimate little meal you’ve got going… for the both of you… together…”
There it is.
I arch a brow. “Did Spencer put you up to this?”
“Pfft! Wha—what are you talking about?” Finn says, voice going higher. “Can’t a guy check on his best friend? I’m just making sure he treats you right, or… or he has to answer to me,” Finn says with as much machismo as he can muster.
Dom is on his feet in about half a second.
A startled yelp rings out, but it’s muffled, like it’s coming from behind Finn’s door.
Finn talks directly into his shirt. “Honey, I told you making him mad was a bad idea.”
“Maybe if you hadn’t gone off script.” This time, the sounds coming from the door are echoing through an earpiece hanging around his neck.
“Ahhh, hello? Guys,” I say, trying to get their attention. “Is that a microphone? Wait, hold up? Is that Mazie’s spy set?”
Finn sighs into his sleeve. “I said this was a bad idea. Now it looks like we stole our kid’s toys.”
The door to his apartment swings open, and Spencer emerges, then stands sheepishly behind Finn. “I told you he’s really just a teddy bear,” he says, avoiding eye contact with everybody.
“Then why are you standing behind me? And didn’t you see the look on Olly’s face the other night? I thought he was gonna shit a brick. Look at him; he’s a big dude.” They turn to look at Dom, who has his eyes trained elsewhere.
“Uh, guys?” he says, pointing. “Runaway baby.”
We all spin.
Mazie is standing in the doorway, one tiny hand gripping the frame, the other on the knob. Vertical. Steady.
“Oh my God, Finn,” he gasps. “She’s standing!” he squeaks out in excitement. “I told you she was close. Yay! Mazie. Good job, sweethear—” The rest of his sentence is cut off by the sound of a slamming door.