Chapter 3 #2
"What made you move to Scottsdale?" His gaze is open and curious. Interested. There's a lot going on around us, superb people-watching, but his eyes remain fixed on me.
"I needed to put space between me and my family. Mostly my parents. They're..." Manipulative. Exacting. Difficult. "...a lot."
"That's tough," Dom says sympathetically, but nothing else.
"What about your family? How are they?"
He shrugs lightly. "Fine. Not much to tell."
He's cagey about his upbringing. Interesting. I elbow him lightly. "Come on. I showed you mine. You show me yours."
His gaze slips from my face, landing on my neck, moving across from shoulder to shoulder. My breath hitches as I watch his lazy perusal. Then he says, "If the tale of my childhood had a flavor, it would be vanilla. Very boring. Nondescript."
"Vanilla is good," I argue. "Vanilla is a staple. A universal flavor for a reason. Me personally?" I sip my drink. "I happen to like vanilla."
His chin dips fractionally, as if to say I accept and appreciate your defense of the flavor and my childhood.
Something hits me square in the back, an elbow, I think, and I pitch forward, mojito sloshing dangerously close to my outfit. Before I can topple out of my seat or collide with the bar, a pair of hands catches me. Steady. Warm. One at my hip, the other brushing my upper arm.
"You ok?" Dom's voice is low, a terse murmur near my ear.
"I'm fine." His proximity is far more flustering than being bumped into. Dom's fingers dally just long enough to make my skin hum.
"Sorry about that," a voice says in a British accent.
A man steps up to our seats, wearing the same post-work uniform as every other male in the vicinity, and stares at me.
"You're gorgeous," he says, eyes glassy.
For some reason his accent makes the interruption less annoying.
"Good work, mate," the guy says to Dom. He extends a fist, waiting for Dom's tap.
This move brings him closer to me, and I'm met with the skunky scent of beer.
Dom obliges. He smiles good-naturedly, eyes locked on me when he says in agreement, "She's beautiful."
"Cheers," the guy says, lifting his pint in the air, hearty and drunk and happy. He moves away. I roll my eyes. "Nice work, playing along like that."
Dom's blue-eyed gaze grips mine. "Who said I was playing?"
It’s probably still part of going along with the inebriated guy, but something about the way Dom says it, the way he’s looking at me, makes it feel like it could be more.
I glance away before I think too hard about it, tapping my nail against the side of my glass.
I'm unsure what to do or say. Dom has exceeded every expectation.
It would take a lot to make me relinquish my hold on my personal feelings of a happily ever after, but it could be a starting off point.
I reserved that last ten percent for precisely this anomaly.
"So, Dom," I start, crossing my legs at the knee and leaning a little closer.
He sees my shift in body language, mirroring it with his own micro-movements.
The dip of his shoulder closest to me. The tightening of his hand that rests on his thigh.
Yeah, this is a date. And a good one, too. "Tell me something you hate."
"Hmm," he rumbles. "My birthday."
The corners of my lips turn down. "Not lima beans, or people who chew with their mouths open?"
He makes a face like fair point. "Those are gross, too."
"What is it you don't like about your birthday?" Sympathy rushes over me, and I place my sympathetic hand on his forearm. I definitely do not take notice of the warmth of his skin, the light dusting of hair, the scattered freckles.
He takes a moment to ponder the answer, then says, "The attention."
I retract my hand, using it to play with the gold bangles on my wrist. "You had me worried there for a second. I was afraid you had a very sad story to tell about your birthday."
"No sad stories." He points at his chest. "Vanilla, remember?"
I run a fingertip through the condensation sweating on my glass. "I don't know, Dom, something tells me beneath this composed exterior, you might be a unique flavor."
He holds my gaze, something passing through his eyes. I don't know him well enough yet to understand what it is.
A ringing trills from his shorts, and he glances down. Frowning, he says, "I'm sorry, I don't normally keep my ringer turned on." He pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen. "I need to take this. Excuse me."
"Sure," I say, shifting on my stool to make it easier for him to get up.
He smiles apologetically. His thigh brushes mine as he steps between our seats. It's warm, strong and solid. His forearm sweeps over the curve of my shoulder, sending a zing of electricity down my arm.
He bends down, his lips near the shell of my ear. He smells so good I nearly groan. "I'll only be a moment," he says, then smoothly steps away.
Over my shoulder, I watch as he disappears down a short hallway leading to the bathrooms.
"That guy is Klein's cousin?"
I whip back around to Halston. Her disbelieving gaze flicks from the now-empty space Dom occupied to my eyes.
"Yes." I laugh. "Why?"
"Because Klein is a tremendous nerd."
"Dominic might be a tremendous nerd as well. I don't know him."
Halston smirks. "Yet."
"He's Klein's agent," I add, swirling a blueberry in my drink with the cocktail straw.
"I bet he put Must love books on his dating profile."
I blink twice, coquettishly. "Good thing I love to read."
A group of men sidles up to the far end of the bar.
Halston glances their way, then says, "If you want another round, I need to know now.
Something tells me those are the kinds of assholes who order difficult drinks.
Fruity martinis, but in rocks glasses because their fragile masculinity can't handle colorful drinks in their proper stemware. "
Our blueberry mojitos sweat on drink napkins, a quarter left in each. "I'm not sure." A quick look at the hallway tells me Dom is not yet on his way back. How long should a phone call take? I hope everything's alright.
Doubt slides into my thoughts, followed by little bursts of dread and panic. Dom wouldn't be getting The Phone Call, would he? The call that announces there has been an emergency and the person needs to abandon the date. Also known as the Ripcord Call.
No. He would've answered a Ripcord Call in front of me, for full dramatic effect.
Ugh, I hate this. The nerves from before have returned, and now they're sharper, laced with uncertainty.
Halston waits for my answer. She has a life to live, a job to do. She can't be delayed by my internal crisis. Quickly, I say, "Let me go ask Dom." I add a decisive nod that hides my apprehension.
Halston waves me off, telling me she'll watch our drinks. Behind me, I hear her tell the guys she'll be with them in a moment.
I grab my purse and hurry across the bar, turning the corner down the hallway. Dom stands at the far end, his back to me.
He really does have a nice back. Shoulders. Hair recently trimmed. The guy is not bad to look at.
I don't want to intrude, so I raise my hand to tap him on the shoulder. His words bring me up short.
"...trying to get rid of her. She's annoying, and she has the worst laugh, and she yammers on and on."
My hand freezes in place. Emotions flood my veins, too many to name, and then one comes out the clear winner: mortification.
Dom still doesn't know I'm here. His shoulders are loose, his phone held to his ear while his other hand rests in his pocket. "Pretty soon my ears will beg me to pull a Van Gogh and cut one off."
Heat spreads through my body, my toes curling and my skin flushing.
Should I stay? Go? Grab his perfectly intact ear and shake his head? Purchase a billboard ad with his photo and the caption I make passionate love to inanimate objects?
"...I'm telling you, she's the worst."
GO. Get the hell out of here and don't look back. I'm good at doing that, and once a person knows they are capable of it, they can do it repeatedly. Roads well traveled, and all that.
I pivot and flee. No looking left or right. I do not pass Go, or collect two hundred dollars.
If Halston caught sight of me, I'm not aware. All I can think about is putting distance between me and the two-faced man back there.
I spill from the restaurant door into the hot evening air.
A group of women stand around, all wearing dresses that at one time would've been purchased in the lingerie section.
One wears a silk sash and an obnoxiously huge tiara.
Bride, the sash reads. This is not at all shocking.
The pink party bus toting around drunk bachelorette parties is a regular sight on these streets.
My eyes close as I place my hands on my hips and suck in a lungful of hot, Scottsdale air. When my eyes open, I find a few curious gazes from the group.
"Are you ok?" The question comes from a brunette wearing large coral pink hoop earrings. She steps closer, away from her group.
"Terrible date," I answer.
She nods. "Been there."
"We've all been there," another girl says, a blonde with a diamond stud nose ring. "What does he look like? That way we'll know to avoid him when we go inside."
I hear Dom in my head. She's annoying. She has the worst laugh...yammers on and on.
"Actually," I say, an idea forming. "He hates being told happy birthday. How about—"
The brunette is already nodding. "Oh yes. I'm all over that. We are going to embarrass the shit out of this guy."
I picture Dom confused, struggling to understand why this group of women is telling him something he hates to hear. It makes me feel incrementally better. Sticking around to see it would be entertaining, but that's not happening. I'll have to ask Halston for a play-by-play another time.
I show them Dom's photo from his company website. "Thank you for doing this," I say, feeling genuinely grateful for the show of female solidarity.
The brunette blows me a kiss as her friends hustle her inside.
I hurry to my car and hurl myself in, throwing on the air-conditioning. It blasts my face as embarrassment swirls through me. Was I totally and completely misreading his signals this whole time? I must have been.
I put my hand on his forearm. Leaned in closer. Laughed, and smiled, and I was having a good time.
I've never felt like such an idiot.
But it doesn't end there, does it? This isn't a random person I will never have to see again. As long as I'm friends with Paisley, seeing Dom will be a possibility. He will never stop being Klein's cousin.
This was a bad idea. What was I thinking? Men are toads. This has been proven to me time and time again. Klein is a unicorn. My big brother is a good person, too, but even he has one failed engagement under his belt. Don't get me started on my dad.
Angry tears heat the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Instead, I pull my phone from my purse and block Dom.
I didn't think a date could get worse than the klepto, but here we are.