Chapter Seventeen #2
His hand brushes against mine, sending a tingle up my arm. I want to take it, to intertwine our fingers like at the party, but something about this moment feels too fragile for such a deliberate move.
“Well,” I say, bumping my elbow gently against his arm, “you’re having one now.”
He looks down at me with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I am. Better late than never.”
We continue walking, our steps synchronizing. The waves create a rhythm that our conversation falls into—questions and answers flowing like the tide.
“What about you?” Dom asks. “Did you always know you wanted to be an entrepreneur?”
“No way.” I laugh, the sound carrying out over the water.
“I wanted to be a veterinarian until I realized how much science that required. Then I wanted to be a fashion designer until I discovered my complete lack of sewing skills. Then a chef, a photographer, a journalist…” I trail off, embarrassed by my lack of direction.
“So, you tried everything,” Dom observes, no judgment in his voice.
“I dabbled,” I admit. “My sister calls it my ‘sampler platter approach to life.’ Try a little bit of everything, commit to nothing.”
“Until the skincare line?”
“Yeah. Glow Girl was my first real commitment. And everyone knows how that turned out. I’m a hot mess.”
“You’re trying to find yourself, not pretend to be someone you’re not. There’s honesty in that struggle.”
I let out a soft breath. No one’s ever framed it that way before. Like my uncertainty isn’t a flaw.
“The luxury athlete housing idea, though,” he continues, “that’s something special. It solves a real problem. It comes from a genuine place.”
“It’s still just an idea,” I remind him.
“Every successful business starts as ‘just an idea,’” he counters. “Including your dad’s tech company.”
I’m surprised he knows about my father’s business history. “You’ve done your homework.”
“Marcus filled me in,” Dom admits. “Said your dad started with just a concept and a garage.”
“And a Stanford degree and family connections,” I add, unable to keep the edge from my voice. It’s the part of the story most people leave out.
Dom’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You know what I think? I think you’re afraid to fully commit to your idea because it might actually work.”
The observation hits so close to home that I take a step back. “What? That’s—”
“If it fails, you can add it to your list of things you tried and moved on from,” he continues, his voice gentle despite the challenging words. “But if it succeeds, then what? You’d have to admit you’re actually good at something.”
I stare at him, speechless. No one has ever called me out quite like this before—not my parents, not even Nora.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “That was out of line.”
“No.” I shake my head. “It wasn’t. It was … perceptive.”
We stand facing each other, the waves providing a soundtrack to this moment of unexpected honesty. Our eyes lock, and something shifts in the air between us.
Dom takes a small step closer, and I feel myself swaying toward him like he has his own gravitational pull. Our hands brush again, but this time neither of us pulls away.
“I think you’re braver than you give yourself credit for,” he says, his voice lower now.
I’m acutely aware of how close we are, how I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. “I don’t feel very brave most of the time.”
“You came to a basketball game wearing my number.” His lips quirk up. “That’s brave.”
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it over the waves. “Maybe,” I concede. “Or maybe just reckless.”
“There’s a fine line,” he agrees, his smile widening.
We resume walking, now hand in hand, our shoulders occasionally bumping. The contact sends little sparks across my skin each time. The conversation shifts to lighter topics—his childhood dog, my disastrous attempt at surfing lessons, his favorite post-game meal.
We come upon a large piece of driftwood, bleached white by the sun and salt, looking almost like a bench. Without discussion, we both sit, our hands still linked.
The moon hangs low over the water, casting a silver pathway across the waves. Stars speckle the sky, more visible here away from the brightest city lights. It’s magical, the kind of scene that would be cheesy in a movie but somehow feels perfect in real life.
“The stars are incredible,” I say, tilting my head back to take them in.
“Aren’t they?” Dom agrees, following my gaze upward.
After a moment, I turn to look at him. His profile is outlined in moonlight, his chiseled jaw and straight nose creating a silhouette that makes my heart stutter.
He must feel me watching, because he turns to meet my eyes. For a moment, we just look at each other, the sound of the waves fading into background noise.
Dom lifts his free hand, slowly, deliberately, and brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His fingertips linger on my cheek, warm against my cool skin.
“Nicole,” he says, my name almost a question.
“Yes?” My voice comes out as barely more than a whisper.
Instead of answering, he leans in, closing the distance between us. His lips meet mine, soft and tentative at first. I answer by leaning into him, my free hand coming up to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat hammering against my palm through the thin cotton of his shirt.
The kiss deepens as his hand moves from my cheek to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my wind-tousled hair, cradling my head.
I feel like I’m dissolving, melting into him like seafoam into sand, the solid warmth of his body an anchor in a world suddenly spinning beneath the vast canopy of stars.
I thread my fingers through his hair, the strands surprisingly soft between my fingertips.
He pulls me closer, his broad palm spanning my lower back as he beckons the kiss deeper, his tongue running along my lower lip, tasting faintly of salt and sweetness.
I part my lips for him, breathing in his exhale, and hold his mouth to mine.
Electricity thrums through my body, from scalp to toes, and his fingers dig into my lower back as pent-up desire floods from us both.
The ocean crashes behind us. The salt wind whips my hair into our faces, but he doesn’t let up until we’re both out of air. When we finally do break apart, I’m at a total loss for words.
Dom rests his forehead against mine, his eyes closed, his breathing as uneven as my own. “I’ve been wanting to do that since the laundry room,” he admits, his voice husky.
I laugh, remembering how we crashed into each other chasing Cocoa. “Even with all the flying towels and Cocoa chaos?”
“Especially then,” he says, pulling back slightly to look at me. “You were so … real. Not trying to be anything but yourself.”
I reach up to touch his face, my fingers tracing along his jawline. “You make me feel like being myself is enough.”
Dom’s eyes, those remarkable golden eyes, hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. “You’re the first person who’s made LA feel like home to me,” he whispers.
The simple honesty of his words brings a rush of emotion that makes my eyes sting. I blink rapidly, not wanting to ruin the moment with tears.
“Really?” I ask, needing to hear it again.
“Really,” he confirms, brushing his thumb across my lower lip.
He kisses me again, more confidently this time, his arm wrapping around my waist to pull me closer. I melt against him, enjoying the most perfect kiss of my life on a moonlit beach. His arms around me feel secure, grounding, like I’ve found an anchor in the constant storm that’s been my life in LA.
I taste him, savor him. I inhale the clean scent of his cologne mingled with the ocean breeze.
Every sensation—from the rough texture of the sun-bleached driftwood beneath my thighs to the gentle pressure of his calloused palm against my flushed cheek—feels heightened, electric, like someone turned up the dial on my nervous system.
As he claims my mouth with a confidence that makes my toes curl against the sand, I let out a soft moan that gets lost in the crash of a nearby wave. His lips are warm and firm against mine. The stubble on his chin grazes my skin, sending tiny shivers down my neck.
When we finally break apart, I’m dizzy with happiness, my lips tingling and my heart thundering so loudly I’m sure he can hear it over the waves.
“Wow,” I whisper, unable to form a more eloquent response. My brain seems to have short-circuited, vocabulary reduced to monosyllables.
Dom’s smile is soft, intimate, reserved just for me. “Wow.”