Chapter 20
Dominic
“Would you like me to start handing you the slats?” Emily asks, nibbling at her thumbnail as uncertainty flickers across her face.
“Sure.” We’re both in her bedroom, which suddenly feels a hell of a lot smaller. There’s plenty of space for the furniture, but for some reason, the walls feel closer, and I’m hyper-aware of every move she makes.
Lil’ Peach is curled up on my recliner in the main room, watching those stupid animated dogs—Bluey, Bingo, Bandit, and Chilli—on the TV. The fact that I even know their names pisses me off.
I’ve already put the base of Emily’s bed together. I just need to secure the slats that’ll support the mattress.
“Here you go,” she says as she hands me the first piece of wood.
We’ve worked together in near silence up to this point, but it hasn’t been awkward. If anything, it’s almost peaceful. I’m used to doing things alone, so having her here is … unexpectedly nice. She even held the frame for me, unprompted, while I screwed everything into place.
I’m grateful the rest of the furniture came already assembled, because she would’ve seen a whole different side of me if they’d been flatpacks, especially those with pointless diagrams that even a genius couldn’t understand.
I’ve lost my cool countless fucking times trying to put that shit together on my own in the past.
When all the slats are screwed into place, I stand and rip the plastic off the new mattress. I don’t need her help lifting it onto the bed; my brute strength is enough.
“Try it out,” I say, and she doesn’t hesitate to fall back onto it.
“Oh, God,” she groans softly, spreading her arms out wide. “It’s like the mattress at Lucia’s. I feel like I’m lying on a puffy cloud.”
It’s only then that I realise my mistake. She’s fully clothed, and although there’s nothing remotely suggestive about the way she’s lying, seeing her stretched out like that has a rush of blood flowing straight to my groin.
I turn sharply and head for the doorway. “I’m going to check if the sheets for your bed are done so I can throw them in the dryer.”
“Dominic,” she says, stopping me just before I step out.
“Yeah,” I reply, keeping my face trained forward.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I’m not sure where I’d be right now if it wasn’t for your kindness.”
I grunt and keep moving, because I’m not sure she’d be so grateful if she knew what I did to her ex.
Emily has been locked away in her room for an hour or so, unpacking and doing whatever chicks do. Lucia ordered the rest of the furniture I need to make this place feel like a proper home. It’s funny how none of that shit ever bothered me before, but now apparently, it does.
Lucia had me take photos of everything so she could get things to match what I already have or to fit the space. I have no clue what she’s chosen, but I guess I’ll find out when it all arrives.
I’m rinsing out my mug when I hear footsteps behind me. Emily steps into the kitchen, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I hate how my pulse quickens at the sight of her.
“Want a coffee?” I ask, tipping my chin towards the machine.
She scrunches her nose, absolutely horrified. “I don’t drink coffee.”
I blink at her. “You don’t?”
“I could go for a cup of tea, though,” she says, like it’s a perfectly normal preference.
I huff out a snort. “Fucking tea. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since you like sour gummies. Your taste buds are seriously messed up.”
She laughs, the sound soft but bright. “They’re not messed up. They’re just refined.”
“Yeah, that’s one word for it,” I mutter, already grabbing the kettle, because apparently I’m the kind of man who makes tea now.
“Hey,” she says, coming up beside me and poking her finger into my side. “Don’t be hating on my tastebuds. What did they ever do to you?”
“They assaulted my senses, that’s what. I’m still emotionally recovering from the fact you actually like sour gummies.”
She lets out another laugh. “So I presume there are no tea bags in this house?”
“They are in the cupboard just there,” I say, pointing in that direction.
This time, she gasps. “Let me get this straight, you have a problem with people who drink tea, yet you stock teabags in your kitchen. That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“I said tea drinkers have messed-up taste buds; I never claimed to have an issue with them, per se.” I definitely don’t have an issue with her.
“Hmm,” she hums.
“I respect tea drinkers, Emily. I just don’t understand them. It’s like people who run marathons for fun. I accept they exist, I just choose not to relate. I simply provide tea the same way hospitals provide crutches, because clearly some people need help.”
“What if I told you I enjoy marathons?”
“Then I’d say that maybe your weirdness spreads way beyond your taste buds.”
“You did not just say that,” she shrieks, bumping my arm with her shoulder.
“Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if I should’ve asked for a character reference before you moved in.
” When she gasps again, my shoulders shake with silent laughter.
“My neighbour brought the tea over, so she had something to drink while she was here.” I side-eye her as I speak, and I don’t miss her tiny wince.
It’s barely there, but enough to make me think she misunderstood.
I clear my throat. “She’s in her seventies, Emily.”
Her head snaps towards me as her pretty eyes widen. “Oh. Well—” She lifts her mug, shrugging innocently. “—I guess we all have our kinks.”
I choke on a laugh. “Jesus. She used to babysit Lil’ Peach when I was working. I never fucked her.” The thought alone is enough to make me shudder.
Emily grins smugly. “Hey, I’m not judging. Some men like their women … seasoned.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I grumble, turning to leave the room. I don’t miss her laugh as I do. She seems delighted, and far too pleased with herself.
Touché, Emily. Touché.
When I come in from the garage, something hits me immediately. The house smells insane, even better than before.
I devoured the platter of sandwiches Emily made us for lunch and scoffed down a handful of cookies, but that was hours ago. I’m starved again.
I step into the hallway, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. Voices drift from the kitchen, one of them tiny. Is Lil’ Peach in there with her?
“Gentle, sweetie,” I hear Emily say. “Gentle means slow, remember?”
I round the corner and stop dead in my tracks.
Emily stands at the counter, her long hair twisted into a messy bun on top of her head. Right beside her—with almost the same hairstyle, only in miniature—my baby girl kneels on the lone barstool, pressing her chubby fingers into dough with the concentration of a surgeon.
There’s flour on her elbow, her cheek, and possibly her forehead. From here, it’s hard to tell, but it looks like Emily is covered in the stuff.
“Oh, good. You’re back. Dinner will be ready soon,” Emily says, glancing at me over her shoulder.
Her gaze drifts down to the tips of my scuffed boots before moving back up over my jeans and lingering for a beat too long on my bare chest. For some reason, it makes the hairs at the nape of my neck stand on end.
My T-shirt is tucked into my back pocket because I worked up a sweat in the garage. After setting up the weights, I figured a quick workout might burn off some of the pent-up frustration knotting my muscles.
When her eyes finally meet mine, I catch the pink hue on her cheek, and a warmth seems to crackle in the air between us.
“You’ve got time to grab a quick shower before we eat,” she says softly.
For a moment, I just stand there, thrown off balance. There’s something salacious in her look. Heat flickers in her eyes, and it hits me square in the chest, leaving me rattled.
The moment between us is broken when Lil’ Peach beams at me. “I baker, D!”
I step further into the room and peer over her shoulder, careful not to let any part of my body touch Emily’s. “I can see that,” I say as my eyes flicker to Emily. “Should I be worried?”
Emily turns her face back to me and lifts an eyebrow. She’s close—too fucking close—and I swear I could drown in those sky-blue eyes of hers if I allowed myself to stare long enough.
“Only if you’ve suddenly got something against edible food,” she scoffs. “And before you say it, there’s nothing wrong with my taste buds.”
A smirk tugs at my lips. I’m rather fond of her sassy side, not that I’d ever admit it out loud.
Lil’ Peach has now resorted to slapping her flattened palms down on the dough instead of kneading it, sending little puffs of flour into the air. It drifts down onto Emily’s shoulder, and she freezes, staring at the new white patch like it personally offended her.
“Peach …” she says slowly.
Lil’ Peach looks up, wide-eyed and proud. “I makin’ snow, Emmy.”
Emily sighs, but she’s fighting a smile at the same time. “Yes, sweet girl. Yes, you are.”
I finish the last of my water and set the cup in the sink, but when I turn to leave the kitchen, I stop cold.
Emily is standing in the doorway, wearing a pale-blue satin nightgown, and damn if my body doesn’t react instantly to the sight of her.
The colour makes her eyes stand out even more, and I can’t help but wonder if the sheets on her bed have the same effect. I’m willing to bet they do.
The bruising on her face is starting to yellow around the edges, and even though they’re beginning to fade, it still churns my stomach every time I look at her.
It makes me want to dig that fucker up and hurt him all over again, but at least I can take solace knowing he got what he deserved and he’ll never be able to hurt her again.
After setting up her furniture, I stayed away from her room, but I washed the bedding Lucia bought, so I know exactly what it looks like.
My eyes travel slowly down the length of her body, from the line of her throat to the delicate straps of her sleepwear, skimming over the swell of her breasts, her narrow waist, the seductive curves of her hips, and lastly, the smooth, tanned skin of her long, lean legs.
This woman is fucking perfection, and no matter how hard I will my cock not to react, it’s useless.
To make matters worse, I’m standing here in nothing but a pair of grey boxer briefs, so there’s no way to hide the swelling of my cock as I take her in.
My gaze retraces its way up her body, and this time, I see the hard pebbles of her nipples trying to poke their way through the flimsy fabric.
Is her body reacting to me, too?
Her arms fly up, folding over her chest, and when my gaze flicks to her face, I notice the pretty pink flush colouring her cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” she says, taking a step back. “I didn’t realise you were up.”
“I always get up this early,” I reply, which is true.
What I don’t mention is that I’ve been lying in bed for the last two hours, staring at the ceiling after dreaming about my sister and Lil’ Peach.
Seeing Emily with my niece yesterday—how patient she was, how she did her hair and let her help in the kitchen—must’ve brought that on. Because in my dream, Violet was the mother she should’ve been when Peach was born, loving and nurturing, not strung out and absent.
“You do?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I nod, shifting my weight. “I grew up in a small, crowded and noisy orphanage with a dozen other kids. Privacy wasn’t really a thing, and quiet definitely wasn’t. So I learned to wake up early, before everyone else. It was the only time the world ever felt … still.”
Emily gasps as her eyes widen. “You grew up in an orphanage?”
“Mostly. I moved between there and too many foster homes.”
“Oh, Dom,” she whispers. “How old were you?”
I clear my throat. “I was eight when I woke to a blood-curdling scream, followed by the slamming of the front door. When I looked out the window, I saw my dad get into his car and drive away. Ten minutes later, I found my mother floating facedown in the pool.” I’m not even sure why I’m telling her, but the words come pouring out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Dom,” she murmurs as she takes a step closer and moves her flattened palm to rest over her breastbone. “I—”
I lift a hand, stopping her before she can come any closer or say another word. I don’t need her pity. I don’t want it. “It is what it is. Violet and I …” I pause and run my hand over my buzzed hair. “Let’s just say things were never the same after that.”
“Who’s Violet?”
“My sister,” I say quietly. “She was five when we entered the system.”
“Peach’s mother?”
I nod because I don’t trust myself to talk about this with her. I don’t know what’ll come out of my mouth if I keep talking. Anger, regret, or worse. It’s something I don’t want Emily to see. So instead of elaborating, I keep my jaw tight and let the silence speak for me.
The room falls awkwardly quiet, and I’m hoping this is the last of our conversation, but when Emily follows up with another question, it takes everything in me not to throw back my head and groan. “What happened to her?”
My nostrils flare as I pinch the bridge of my nose and think carefully about my answer, but there’s no sugar coating this. “She’s an addict,” I grumble. “She lost custody of Lil’ Peach the moment her daughter was born with drugs in her system.”
Fuck, even now, three years on, it still eats at me.
“Oh my goodness.”
“That’s why she’s with me. I didn’t want my niece growing up the way we did.
She deserves better.” That’s why you’re here with us, too, I almost say, but I swallow it down.
I’ve already said too much. She doesn’t need to know how close I came to losing it at the thought of her ending up like my mother.
Emily parts her lips, like she’s about to respond, but I can’t go there with her. Not now.
I push off the kitchen counter and stalk past her, leaving before she can give me that soft, sympathetic look. I feel like an arsehole as I head straight for my room and slam the door harder than I intended.
It has nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. I hate feeling this exposed. This raw … this hollow inside.