26. Jenna
Jenna
Iwin the third Uno round and survive the celebration, which is a sentence I couldn’t have written a month ago.
While the table dissolves into a tribunal on whether guacamole is legally a salad—Layla dissenting loudly on the grounds that “salad implies effort”—I take my wine and slip out through the balcony door.
The cool Chicago wind hits my flushed face as the glass door slides shut, muting the chaos of the penthouse behind me. I grip the steel railing, drawing a sharp, measured breath. My heart is doing something undignified against my ribs.
It wasn’t just the teasing. It was the look Dominic gave me right before the table went quiet.
That heavy, heated stare that pinned me to my chair and made the rest of the room evaporate.
I am perfectly capable of handling billionaire CEOs, hostile negotiations, and Bennett Mercer on three hours of sleep.
I am not equipped to handle the way Dominic’s dark eyes completely dismantle my defenses, or the terrifying reality that I’m actively letting him do it.
I’m falling for the man—fully—and the entire executive board of our friend group just witnessed how deep I’m in.
The soft glide of the glass door breaks my spiral.
“Tactical retreat?” Serena asks, coming to stand beside me at the railing. Her dark hair blows in the breeze, her signature red lipstick perfectly intact despite the number of tacos and tequila-heavy drinks ingested this evening. I need to get the brand name.
“Strategic repositioning,” I correct, taking a slow sip of my wine to ensure my voice is level. “The indoor climate was becoming unmanageable.”
Serena chuckles, a low, knowing sound. “Uh-huh. The climate. You know it’s entirely OK to just admit you’re happy, right? You don’t have to inspect the man’s affection for flaws.”
“Inspecting things for flaws is literally in my job description,” I remind her, keeping my gaze fixed on the glittering grid of the city below. “It prevents catastrophic failure.”
“Jenna, you’re married to him.” Serena leans her hip against the railing, turning to face me. “The falling in love part already happened. You can stop doing due diligence.”
“No one said anything about love. It’s a situational marriage,” I point out, though the words taste thin and unconvincing even to me. My thumb traces the condensation on my wine glass. “And he is . . . entirely too much.”
“He’s completely obsessed with you,” Serena corrects, her tone gentling.
“And you’re terrified because he’s not just making grand, dismissible gestures anymore.
He’s offering to help with your sister’s career goals.
He’s looking at you like you’re the only person in a room full of very loud people. ”
My chest tightens. She’s named the exact thing I’ve been trying not to.
When Dominic was just a charismatic hurricane of expensive suits and relentless flirting, I could categorize him.
I could manage the threat. But this version of him—the one who builds quiet spaces for me in his life, memorizes my likes and dislikes, and touches the back of my neck until my carefully ordered mind goes entirely blank—doesn’t give me anything to fight. He just keeps making room for me.
“I don’t like losing control,” I admit quietly. It is the closest thing to a confession I have made in years.
Serena smiles, bumping her shoulder against mine. “I know. We all saw those walls of yours slam back into place when you fell into that moment in there. But sometimes those free falls are the best part.”
The city runs to the horizon in every direction, lit up and indifferent, a thousand small lives driving somewhere on a Saturday night. I let out a heavy breath.
“You said something to me after brunch,” I say. “On a sidewalk. That if there ever came a day I needed to say something out loud—to make sure it was real, or to make sure it wasn’t—you were around. No shrieking. No follow-up questions.”
“I remember.”
I turn my glass by the stem. Inside, muffled to a hum, someone howls with laughter. Out here it’s just wind and altitude and a woman patient enough to wait me out, that door of hers still open for me.
“I think it’s real,” I say.
Serena doesn’t squeal. She doesn’t gasp or clap her hands or demand details. True to her word, she simply takes a sip of her drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass in the quiet night air.
“I can tell,” she says softly. “I think I first noticed you softening toward him that night you finally agreed to join us at a club.”
I stiffen slightly, recalling the low light and relentless thump of the bass.
“That was a logistical anomaly,” I murmur, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch. “My schedule was compromised. I was exhausted and experiencing a severe lapse in judgment.”
“And yet, you let him buy you a French 75 and follow you around like an enamored puppy dog all evening,” Serena counters smoothly.
She’s right, of course. Her observational skills are flawless. That night was the first time my certainty slipped. It was the exact moment I realized his over-the-top flirting might be serious.
“It wasn’t a puppy dog,” I correct her, though the precision of my defense lacks its usual bite. “It was more like a highly trained guard dog that occasionally forgot its dignity to chase a tennis ball.”
Serena laughs, the sound bright and warm against the chill of the wind. “Whatever species of canine you prefer, Jenna. The point is, he’s yours. And you’re his.”
I take another sip of wine, letting the dry finish settle on my tongue. I look back through the floor-to-ceiling glass. The guacamole debate inside seems to have escalated into a full-scale legal proceeding. Logan is currently holding up a tortilla chip like a piece of irrefutable evidence.
But my eyes immediately bypass the chaos, locking onto Dominic.
He’s leaning against the kitchen island, a beer in one hand, looking effortlessly lethal in his dark shirt. As if sensing the exact coordinates of my gaze, his head turns. Across twenty feet of designer furniture and thick insulated glass, his dark eyes find mine.
The corner of his mouth tips up in a slow, devastating smirk. He raises his bottle a fraction of an inch in my direction—a private salute.
My heart executes a flawless, terrifying swan dive.
“Look at him,” Serena murmurs, following my line of sight. “He’s practically vibrating with the urge to come out here and check on you, but he’s holding back because he knows you need a minute. That’s not a takeover, Jenna. That’s a partnership.”
I swallow hard, my grip on the stem of my glass tightening. “It’s terrifying,” I whisper, the admission feeling jagged in my throat. “I have contingency plans for market crashes, PR disasters, and difficult acquisitions. I don’t have a contingency plan for him.”
Serena turns, resting her forearms against the cold metal. “Maybe you don’t need one. Dominic isn’t trying to take control away from you. He’s waiting for you to choose him.”
I stare at her profile, my analytical mind searching for a flaw in her logic and finding absolutely none. It’s infuriating.
“I despise it when you’re right,” I mutter.
Serena’s smile widens. “I’m just calling it how I see it—as someone who knows the difference between losing control and feeling safe enough to let go.
” She finishes her drink, the ice clacking a final time, and pushes off the railing.
“Now, I’m going back inside before Caleb manages to find case law to cite about avocados.
Take your time. Or don’t.” She pauses, glancing over her shoulder.
“But he’s tracking your heart rate through the glass, so I wouldn’t leave him waiting too long. ”
She slides the balcony door open, letting out a brief burst of Layla’s laughter, and slips inside.
I’m left alone with the wind and the skyline, but the isolation lasts exactly twenty-two seconds. The door glides open again.
Dominic steps into the cool air of the late-spring night, heat radiating from him before he even reaches me. He leans against the railing beside me, careful not to crowd my space, though his proximity alone sends a fresh spike to my heart rate.
“Has the avocado litigation concluded?” I ask, staring straight ahead at the city lights.
“Hung jury,” Dominic says. His voice is a low, warm rumble that vibrates right through my ribs. He turns his body toward me, blocking the wind. “You OK? I promised I’d pull the ripcord and get you out of here if it got weird.”
“It’s not weird,” I say, setting my glass down and turning to face him. I step into his space, flattening my palms against the warm cotton of his shirt.
He doesn’t hesitate. His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me flush against him as his mouth comes down on mine. The kiss is slow, deliberate, tasting of lime, salt, and absolute devotion. It thoroughly dismantles whatever composure I had left.
My hands slide up to grip his shoulders, anchoring myself as the ground drops out from beneath my heels.
Every careful boundary I’ve built since high school incinerates in the space between our mouths.
I let it burn. I stop auditing the moment for risks and simply let myself do what I keep resisting. I fall.
When we finally break apart, the cool air rushes back in, but my skin is practically humming.
Dominic’s forehead rests against mine, his breathing as shallow and fractured as my own.
His thumbs trace slow, mesmerizing arcs just above my hip bones, sending a highly localized heat wave straight to my core.
“Remind me,” I murmur, my voice lacking its usual precise modulation, “was the ripcord a metaphorical exit strategy, or did you actually have a tactical extraction vehicle standing by?”
A low laugh rumbles in his chest, vibrating delightfully against my sternum. “I can have a black car downstairs in four minutes if you say the word.”
“The word.”
He searches my face, a flicker of protective concern in his dark eyes. “Has tonight been too much?”
“No,” I correct smoothly, adjusting his collar. “But I’ve calculated the remaining hours of the weekend, and I require a significant number of orgasms. I was thinking we could alternate oral administration. To minimize tongue and jaw cramping. It’s basic ergonomic risk management.”
A deep, chest-rattling chuckle vibrates against my palms. Dominic’s eyes crinkle, flashing with brilliant, weaponized affection as he rests his forehead against mine. “God, Jenna,” he murmurs, his grip tightening. “I love it when you talk strategic lovemaking.”