Chapter 30 Sloane
Sloane
Now
When I wake up, my mind is fuzzy and still clinging to the slivers of a dream about meeting a guy whose face I never see at my first college party, dancing with him all night long, and connecting on a level that shouldn’t have been possible for strangers.
I haven’t had it in months, but I’ve always thought of it as my subconscious attempt to rewrite the parts of the night that were ravaged by alcohol.
Still, I can’t imagine why my brain would choose today of all days to call that particular fantasy up.
I stare at the wall and try to figure it out, then decide not to dwell on it, because a tired, grief-riddled mind can’t be trusted to adhere to logic.
Groaning, I turn onto my back and realize I’m in bed alone.
There are beams of orangish-red light streaming through the windows, letting me know it’s early in the evening.
I sit up slowly, bracing myself for the throbbing pressure behind my eyes that indicates the start of the headache I always get after spending hours crying.
Surprisingly, the pain doesn’t come, and I’m able to go to the bathroom and make myself presentable without any issue.
When I’m satisfied with my appearance, and completely over the puffiness around my eyes I can’t do anything about, I head back downstairs to find Dom.
Everything in the house is still, golden rays of sunlight stream in through all the windows, and there’s no sign of him anywhere.
I’m almost convinced he left, but then I see that the light in my home office is on.
As I pad down the hallway, his gravelly baritone filters out through the slight opening in the door and calls to me on a cellular level.
I stop short, waiting for my heart to slow to a more manageable rhythm—something that doesn’t feel like I’m about to go into cardiac arrest—before tapping on the door and pushing it open.
Twin pools of midnight greet me, looking both surprised and delighted to see me standing in the doorway.
I hold his gaze and hope like hell I’m not as easily read as he is right now, because my heart hasn’t slowed down one bit.
In fact, it’s galloping at warp speed, trying to beat its way out of my chest and take its rightful place in the palm of his hand.
God, I forgot how devastating it can be to stare into the eyes of the man you love.
Because that’s exactly what this is. Love. “Can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t breathe without you” love. “Your smile lights up my world and your arms feel like home” love. “I could stand here all day and watch you do the most mundane task without ever getting bored” love.
“I am so fucking stupid and have set myself up for the heartbreak of a lifetime” love.
“I’ll have to get back to you,” Dom is saying into the phone, closing his computer and shoving the papers in his hand back into a folder, all with his eyes on me. “Bye, Seb.”
He crooks a finger at me, beckoning me to him, and I don’t think he cares about what the person on the other end of the line—Seb? As in Sebastian Adler?—is saying, because as soon as my feet start moving, he hangs up the phone and sets it down.
“Were you working?” I round the desk and slide onto his lap.
He pulls my legs up and drapes them over his hard thigh. I lay my head on his shoulder, pulling in a deep breath just to flood my nostrils with that spicy, masculine scent that’s uniquely him.
Warm fingers ghost over the bare skin of my legs. I was wearing yoga pants when I fell asleep on him, but he must have taken them off when he carried me to bed, because he knows how much I hate sleeping in anything more than Eric’s old T-shirt and a pair of underwear.
“Just going over some permit applications.”
I press a kiss to his neck. “Are you ever going to tell me about this mystery project you’ve been working on?”
He sighs. “Eventually. I think I’ll need your expertise at some point.”
“Mm-hmm.” I sit up and smile at him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you like working with me.”
“I love working with you. You’re my favorite interior designer.”
“You’re only saying that because I put out.”
Amusement shines in his eyes, but he doesn’t refute my statement as he brushes his nose over mine. Once again, that keen sense of déjà vu hits me, layering on top of the dream still lingering at the edge of my mind. My eyes narrow as I try to home in on the details, but they just won’t come.
Dom looks concerned as he searches my face. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head. “I just got the strongest sense of déjà vu.”
No way am I mentioning the dream. This man has already seen enough of my crazy for one day. There’s no need to show him any more.
“Déjà vu?” he asks, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Yes.” I roll my eyes when he lets it take over.
“Sometimes when we’re together, you’ll do something, like brushing your nose over mine, and I’ll just get this distinct, unshakable feeling we’ve done it before.
Like we’ve lived that exact moment, but I just don’t know when or how. Do you ever feel that way?”
Just as suddenly as it appeared, the smirk goes away, replaced by a look I can’t quite discern. I stare at him, feeling awkward and confused by his silence and the sudden change in his mood. Finally, he shakes his head.
“No, can’t say that I have.” He tightens his hold on my waist, and it’s the only warning I get before he stands up and my feet meet the floor. A shadow of an emotion passes behind his eyes as he looks down at me. “Are you hungry?”
I nod slowly, examining him to try and determine where his head is. “I could eat, but I didn’t take anything out for dinner. Not that there was anything to take out. My fridge is disturbingly empty.”
The past few days have been nothing but cuddle-filled mornings and sex-filled evenings, and it hasn’t left me with a lot of time to do anything that doesn’t involve being around the man standing in front of me.
We’ve spent every night holed up here, devouring each other and pretending nothing outside of the edges of my bed, and an array of food delivery apps, exists.
“Good thing I had some groceries delivered.”
Dom takes my hand and pulls me out of the office, leading me into the kitchen and gesturing for me to take a seat at the island.
At some point, probably while I was sleeping, he managed to clear the countertop.
Putting away my sketches, computer, and paperwork and leaving them in a neat stack with my phone on top.
“Thank you for cleaning up and ordering food.”
“You don’t need to thank me, angel.”
He doesn’t even look at me as he says it, and I tell myself not to read too much into it. Instead, I focus on studying the broad planes of his back and the way his muscles shift underneath the soft cotton T-shirt he’s wearing as he moves around.
But staring at him only makes the sinking feeling in my gut worse, because I immediately notice the muscle in his jaw jumping as he starts to remove the skin from the salmon fillets he’s just pulled from the fridge. I shift in my seat, feeling restless and awkward in my own kitchen.
“Do you need some help?”
“Oh, yeah.” He chucks his chin at the refrigerator. “There’s stuff for a salad in there if you want to throw it together.”
“I think I can do that.”
Working on dinner with Dom, even on something as simple as pan-seared salmon with a salad, feels nice.
Familiar and easy in a way I haven’t had in such a long time.
We work in coordinated movements that say everything about the time we’ve spent together over the past few weeks.
The mornings making coffee, the evenings spent shoveling takeout onto plates, eating as quick as we can, and loading the dishwasher before ripping each other’s clothes off.
Too bad it won’t last. My heart squeezes at the thought.
But even as we move around each other, doing our parts to finish up dinner, something feels weird. An awkwardness hanging in the air that doesn’t dissipate even as we eat. Dom is still deep in his head, and I’m still feeling self-conscious and vulnerable after my breakdown earlier today.
All of the tears, the weight of my confession, and Dom’s absolution have left me exhausted.
Turns out, laying the ugliest parts of your soul at someone else’s feet and being washed clean by their words and compassion can take a lot out of you.
None of that tells me why he’s so quiet though.
It does nothing to explain the antsy tension rolling off of his body in waves.
Maybe it was all too much for him. Maybe he’s spent the last few hours thinking about what I said and is wondering how to tell me he can’t do this anymore. Because even though he gets where I was coming from, he can’t stand to be with the woman who…
Stop it. Just ask him what’s wrong, and he’ll tell you.
I set my fork down, preparing to do just that, and my phone starts vibrating on the table to announce an incoming FaceTime call from Mal. I pick it up and start to press the decline button, but Dom’s voice stops me.
“Don’t. She probably just wants to check on you since you called in sick today.”
He stands up and grabs my plate, stacking it on top of his and moving to the sink. I stare after him. Everything in me wants to ignore this call so I can go wrap my arms around his waist and fuse myself to his body until he makes me believe everything is okay.
“Answer the phone, angel.”
Something in his voice, the quiet reservation in his tone, makes the worry brewing in my soul even more acute. But my phone is still ringing, loud, incessant, and impossible to ignore.
Pushing out a frustrated sigh, I hit the accept button and school my features into something more friendly for Mal…and Mama. Both of their faces are squeezed into the small screen, beaming at me with identical smiles that remind me of Eric.