23. Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
~JESSICA~
I hop out of Dom’s G-Wagon and immediately squint against the blinding, sun-drenched ridiculousness before me.
A house. A huge house. Cream stone, wraparound balcony, double glass doors that reflect us like a mirror. There’s a palm tree that looks custom-landscaped and might just be real.
“Okay,” I say, turning to Dom as he steps out of the car. “What’s going on?”
Dom shuts his door, sunglasses on, and does a slow sweep of the driveway like he’s surveying.
He’s not answering. He hasn’t answered once during our forty-minute drive .
“You know kidnapping is a crime, yes?” I place both hands on my hips.
“You’re the most impatient woman I’ve ever met.”
“I was kidnapped.” I gesture at myself. “Sorry for my curiosity.”
He walks over and takes my hand, and a jolt of something electric runs up my arm.
“Try trusting me for once,” he says, tugging gently.
I look down at his hand on mine, at the Richard Mille on his wrist, and follow as he leads me to the front door. He releases my hand to pull out a key and unlock the door with a loud click.
“Wait… this is your house?”
“Yeah.” He pushes the door open.
“Like a vacation house?” I ask, following him inside.
“It’s not a vacation house.” He tosses the keys into a dish by the door. “Though my team certainly likes to think of it that way.”
I take in the vaulted ceilings. Beyond the living room is a wall of glass overlooking nothing but sand and sky.
“It’s the first house I bought back when I signed with the Blazers. ”
“Why did you move?” I ask, genuinely curious. How could someone move out of this?
“I wanted to be closer to the practice rink and…” He hesitates, then adds quieter, “Jace.”
“Aww, does the big man have separation anxiety?”
He shoots me a warning glance, but he’s smiling.
Before I can ask more or interrogate the absurd cost of what must be five thousand square feet of beachfront paradise, Dom takes my hand again and tugs me toward the back doors.
“Come on.”
“Am I meeting your butler?”
“So you can sunbathe topless in front of him as well?” He walks me across the large living room.
My cheeks heat as he opens the glass doors. We walk down the patio steps and straight onto the sand. It feels like his private strip of beach.
My breath stops at what we’re walking toward. In the middle of the beach, tucked under a large white umbrella, is a massive beach mat with three trays lined side by side. Each one is filled with food: croissants, berries, cheeses, little glass containers, and a silver bucket of ice .
“Is that a picnic?” I whip my head to him, stunned.
Dom crosses his arms. “What gave it away?” he deadpans, lifting the Dom Pérignon by the neck.
“You packed me a picnic?”
“I had my butler set it up earlier.”
I step closer, scanning the spread. Tucked neatly next to one pillow, half-hidden in the sand, is a plastic bucket, a mini shovel, a rake, and some castle molds.
Dominic Moreal’s private beach. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at how ridiculous it sounds.
“Are…?” I crouch slightly. “Are these yours?”
“Yeah.” Dom settles the champagne in the ice bucket.
“Oh my God, do you have kids?”
He takes a breath, his face softening. “I do. My sister takes care of him for me. His name is Jace.” He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth to stop a smile.
I look back at the toys. “So, why do you have these?”
I pick up the mini shovel and hold it up.
“I need your help burying a body.” Dom plucks it from my hand. “Hardware store was closed, so I figured this would do. ”
A small laugh escapes me as he lifts the plastic shovel dramatically.
“I’m serious,” I say, still smiling. “What are they for?”
“For a sandcastle.” He tosses the shovel on top of the other toys.
“Why would we be building a sand—” The words die.
My heart slams once and I’m back in that studio: bright lights and an interviewer asking me to describe our “first date” while I made it up—the picnic, the sunset, the sandcastle. He hated that story and told me no one would believe it. Called it embarrassing and pathetic.
“The interview,” I say.
Dom nods, and I shake my head.
“You made up a solid first date,” he shrugs. “Felt rude not to follow through.”
“You nearly bit my head off after I made up that story.”
“And I apologize.” He steps closer, gaze lowering. “I’d like the chance to turn your fantasies into reality. ”
Heat floods my cheeks as his eyes drop. He remembered. And not only that—he made it real.
“So, I was right… the captain is smitten after all.”
Dom moves closer, crowding my space. I crane my neck to look up at him, heart fluttering.
“The captain is starving. And it’s either you or the food. So, make your choice.”
I fold my arms and sink onto the mat.
Dom settles beside me, one leg stretched, the other bent. His shoulder brushes mine, and I’m still trying to process that any of this is real.
“So…” I glance sideways. “Is this a date?”
He opens the bottle with a soft pop and raises a brow. “Does it look like a business meeting?”
He pours the champagne and hands me a flute with a small wink.
Oh my God, this is so a date.
“To our first date,” I say, lifting my glass.
“Technically,” he raises his, “this is our second.”
“You’re counting Minnesota?”
“Aren’t you?”
I sip, remembering his hands on my waist and his breath at my neck as he taught me to skate—how easy it was to lose track of the game we were supposed to be playing. My cheeks heat.
I glance back toward the house. “This whole place is yours?”
He nods. “Spent part of my first Blazers check on it.”
“Why not sell this one?”
The sun hits the flecks of gold in his eyes. He looks younger, softer—still intimidating, but a little more boyish.
“I didn’t have the heart to.”
“You? Having a heart?” I tease. “Didn’t know you came with one.”
“I keep it under the tattoos.”
I bite down a smile as I sip champagne. “What do you mean you didn’t have the heart to sell it?”
Dom exhales, eyes on the ocean. “This house…” he pauses, “it marked something for me.”
“Your first paycheck?”
“No.” His eyes cut toward me. “My escape.”
“Escape from what?”
He drags a thumb along the rim of his glass before answering ,
“My parents.”
Two words. Something tugs in my chest. He doesn’t clarify; he just looks at the horizon, jaw set. I think of the text I saw on his phone that morning—from his mom, calling him a disappointment.
“Why would you need an escape from them?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately. After a few seconds, I reach for a ceramic plate and place a pastry on it, giving my hands something to do while he works through the silence. I don’t want to rush him. I don’t want to say something that makes him shut down.
“They had a plan for me,” he says at last. “Hockey was supposed to be a phase. Something that looked good on college recs. Then I went pro, and that wasn’t part of the plan.” He watches the ocean as though it’s easier to say this without eye contact.
I set the plate down beside me, careful not to interrupt.
“So this house is a symbol of freedom?”
“Yeah. The first place I could breathe without them sniffing my ass.”
“Do they ever come here?”
“They’ve never seen it.”
I want to reach out and touch him, to say something comforting. Instead, I stay close, hungry for more of him and his story.
“Tell me about them,” I try, softly.
He watches the waves with familiar stillness. “I come from… a particular kind of lifestyle.”
“Were your parents hippies or something?” I joke.
Dom laughs. “Complete opposite.”
“How rich are we talking?”
“I didn’t know what a mortgage was until I was seventeen and learned about it in school,” he admits.
“Seriously?”
“Mm.” He nods. “My parents never talked about money like normal people do.” He leans back. “My father forced me into social studies, law, political science. Hired private tutors. Made me shadow politicians, diplomats, and CEOs. I was supposed to follow in his footsteps.”
“And what footsteps are those?”
“Senate,” he says. “He’s running. Again.”
“Your dad’s a politician?”
Dom nods. “He knew every move of my life before I made it. My mother handled my personal life like PR on crack. She arranged dinners with donor daughters, senators, family friends. Told me what to wear, what to say, who to stand next to, how to smile in pictures.” He shakes his head.
“Growing up, I wasn’t allowed to call them Mom and Dad.
It was ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Sir,’ like they were my commanding officers, not my parents. ”
I sit stunned. This explains a lot.
“They had a path mapped out before I could drive,” he continues. “Hockey was something I was allowed to do in prep school because it gave them a chance to network in the VIP boxes.”
“Well, to be fair, you do have the vibe of a man in high office.”
He raises a brow. “Sexy, huh?”
“Don’t push it, Senator.” I grin.
“From Captain to Senator. What a fucking downgrade,” he snorts.
“I can’t imagine you being an ass-kissing politician.”
“The only ass I kiss is yours, apparently,” he laughs, gesturing to the spread.
I sip my champagne. “What about Melody? ”
“Oh, same thing. She was supposed to marry a ‘good man’ and help him shine. My parents lost it when she started dating Jace.”
“Why? Jace is a good man.”
“To them, hockey players are scum. Doesn’t matter how much money you make or how good you are. It’s about perception and bloodlines. Jace grew up normal and worked for everything. That makes him trash in their eyes.”
“When I went pro,” Dom continues, “they pulled every string to stop it. Leaked fake stories, tried to sabotage my eligibility, hired lawyers to poke at my contracts.”
“But it didn’t work.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m just too good.” His lips twitch.
I can’t hide the smile tugging at my mouth.
“And when I finally got drafted,” he adds, “they threatened to cut me off. Said I’d lose my inheritance and be removed from the trust.”
“Did they?”