Chapter 27 Green Light
Green Light
“It might be messy,” he warned.
Juliette gave him a look. They were standing outside his London townhouse; the white facade gleamed like polished bone in the last gasps of sunlight.
Dominic withdrew his keys. Had he remembered to buff the kitchen countertops?
He’d certainly wiped them, but as his father liked to say, that was a job half-done.
He hesitated. “Maybe I should go in first to—”
“Open the door, Hastings,” Juliette said, and then she shivered in her wet clothes, which decided him.
Dominic opened the door.
Juliette was inside immediately, inspecting the living room.
Dominic took stock of the situation: organized cookbooks, three cameras on display, some weights stacked neatly by the coffee table…
but the coasters, he realized, grimacing; he’d forgotten to put away the coasters. Juliette raised an eyebrow.
“Wow.” She shook her head. “You’re right, Hastings. This place is a dump.”
Dominic stacked the coasters. “I would have hoovered.”
“Sensible,” Juliette said gravely. “You might have missed a speck of dust.” She turned to the wall. “Did your mother take these?”
Dominic followed her gaze. Black-and-white photographs took up most of the space, a hodgepodge of different cities: a stampede of mules in Greece, blurred motorcycles in Vietnam, a man cooking pasta in Italy…
He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Yeah.”
Juliette tapped a blurry photograph of a train. “I like this one. You can tell that your mother was talented.” Dominic paused, and her eyes narrowed. “What?”
Dominic cleared his throat. “Nothing.” He’d taken that photo when he was visiting Liêm in Hanoi; they’d drunk beers on Train Street, occasionally jumping back from the railroad tracks as indifferent steel giants whizzed by.
But admitting that would only make her dislike it, so he turned away.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll get you some dry clothes. ”
Dominic made for his bedroom. He yanked open his wardrobe, surveying the color-sorted items. A black shirt, a soft white tee, a shirt with his favorite football team…
He held up the white T-shirt, then imagined Juliette wearing it, the material skimming the tops of her firm thighs.
Heat stirred in his stomach, and he shoved the T-shirt back into his closet.
Yeah.
No.
He settled on a pair of gray jogging pants and the football shirt. By the time Dominic reached the kitchen, Juliette was happily sifting through his cupboards, inspecting glass containers and bags. She held up a spice jar, looking amused.
“Fennel pollen? Really, Hastings?”
Dominic snatched the jar, placing it back in the cupboard. “I need it for my maple-roasted carrots. And other vegetables.”
“And charnushka?” Juliette asked, her smile growing. “Do you need that for your carrots?”
“That’s for rye bread.”
She reached for another jar. “What about—?”
“All right,” Dominic said, hastily shutting the cupboard. “That’s enough snooping.” He held out the clothes. “For you.”
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “There’s no way those are going to fit.”
“Your choice, Marchmont.” Dominic shrugged. “It’s that or going naked.”
Too late, he realized that saying the words naked and Marchmont in the same sentence was a mistake, since he could recall seeing her naked in excruciating detail and was now imagining it. Vividly. A charged silence stretched out between them. Juliette dug her toe into his wooden floorboards.
“I’ll just…” She took the clothes. “Where’s your toilet?”
“Down the corridor.” He cleared his throat. “First door on your left.”
Juliette left.
He braced against the counter, half closing his eyes.
He gave himself two breaths before turning for the cupboard, digging out the arborio rice.
Get your shit together. He shook the rice into a bowl, his fingers gripping the bag with slightly too much force.
She’s your teammate. An incredibly hot teammate, granted, but the world is filled with hot women.
He placed Juliette’s phone in the bowl, sweeping rice over the cracked screen.
Anyway, you don’t even like her. Not after what she said in—
“Hastings?” Juliette’s footsteps sounded. “Did you find the rice?”
Dominic turned.
And stared.
Juliette had returned. She’d plaited her hair into a thick rope, and her cheeks were flushed. But it was her bare legs that caught Dominic’s attention. Her bare legs, he realized, with mounting disbelief, because she was wearing only his football shirt.
“Where are the pants?” Dominic asked hoarsely.
“It’s August.” She shrugged. “And this flat is like a million degrees.”
Dominic turned. “I can get shorts.” Fucking hell, he needed her to wear shorts. Those legs…They could be responsible for car accidents.
Juliette waved him off. “Your shorts won’t fit me.” She leaned forward to inspect her phone. The shirt rode up her legs, and Dominic dragged his gaze away. “Anyway, I won’t be long.”
“Right.” Dominic swallowed hard. Was she doing this to deliberately torture him? He wouldn’t put it past her. “Here.”
He held out his phone, and he noticed that she was careful not to let their fingers brush as she took it. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Dominic took a step back. “If Cap doesn’t answer and you need somewhere to stay tonight…” He gestured vaguely down the corridor. “I have a spare bedroom.”
He had two, actually, although he was embarrassed to say so.
Juliette murmured a thank-you before retreating down the corridor.
The phone rang, followed by Cap’s tenor voice, and Dominic exhaled.
So he’d answered. Good. The idea of Juliette sleeping a few doors down, dressed in nothing but an oversized shirt…
A painful bolt of desire went through him. Why had he agreed to this again?
Oh, yeah.
Because he was an idiot.
Dominic rummaged in a cupboard, unearthing supplies to bandage his busted knuckles: antiseptic, gauze, scissors…
He could see Juliette pacing, sweeping her toe idly across his wooden floorboards.
The name of a famous football player was emblazoned across her back, accompanied by a signature.
To Dom, it read. Not bad for a rookie. I look forward to our rematch.
The player in question had been a very nice Brazilian bloke who’d offered to let Dominic share his water bottle.
But honestly.
Fuck that guy.
He was throwing that shirt in the bin when she left. Or giving it to charity. Because, you know, there was the trees to think about.
“Cap’s on his way,” Juliette announced, returning to the kitchen. “He got the keys from Baz.”
Dominic took the phone. “Did he say when he’d get here?”
“Why? Eager to be rid of me, Hastings?”
Dominic’s smile was grim. Yes, but not for the reasons you think. “Just asking for the purposes of planning.”
“He’s in Stratford.” Juliette hopped up on a barstool. “At some girl’s house party. Should take about an hour.”
Dominic returned to cutting bandages. Which was, he realized, actually very difficult when you were dripping blood all over the counter.
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “Do you want help?”
“I’m good.”
Dominic fumbled the scissors, cursing under his breath as his split knuckles gave a painful throb. Juliette picked up a mug that Liêm had purchased that said, French Men Do It Better, looking amused as she turned it over.
Dominic cut the bandage with a snip. Fat beads of blood ran down his wrist, and Juliette held out a hand.
“Give it here.”
“I can do it.”
“Hastings.” Juliette set down the mug. “This is painful. You’re making a mess of it.”
He couldn’t deny that she was right. “Fine.”
He pushed the supplies across the counter. Juliette took his wrist; her grip was surprisingly firm, her eyes assessing the split knuckles with clinical observation. She cleared her throat, uncapping the antiseptic.
“The tattoo is new.”
Dominic glanced down at his forearm. “It’s a photograph that my mother took. The lavender fields near Gordes. We used to visit every spring.”
She applied antiseptic. “You grew up in Paris, right?”
She already knew that, but Dominic had the sense that she was trying to distract him from the pain, so he humored her. “Yeah. I was—” He hissed out a breath. “I was there until I was eight. Before…”
The onslaught of images came, just as they always did: his mother’s perfume on a silken headscarf; her wheelchair rattling over a sterile hospital floor; his father kneeling by the grave, head bowed, not crying but white-lipped and silent, the damp grass staining his trousers…
“Anyway,” he said, shaking off the memories, “that’s why I keep my flat in Paris. I like to use my French when I can.”
Juliette’s fingers were gentle. “Does your father speak French?”
“He does,” Dominic allowed. “Although he never uses it anymore.”
Not in years.
Not since…
More memories surfaced. Skating across slippery Parisian cobblestones, Dom’s gloved hand in his mother’s mitten; his mother coming in from the opera to kiss him goodnight, smelling of perfume and cigarettes; cooking an omelet in a cast-iron skillet.
You must never wash the pan, mon chou, his mother had murmured.
That’s where the flavor lives. You must let it develop over time, like a good romance.
His father had been happier in those days.
Vance had always been stern, but he’d been softer somehow, like a blade that had been dulled with time.
He’d laughed more. Surprised his wife with croissants.
Built model cars with his son. It was only after Colette’s death that Vance locked pieces of himself away.
Juliette pulled out a bandage. “We used to go on camper van holidays to France. It was the cheapest holiday you could do with five kids.”
“You’re including Baz in that count?”
Juliette looked at Dominic as if he’d asked if bananas were yellow. “Of course I am.”
She seemed baffled by the idea that Baz would be anything but family. A lump rose in Dominic’s throat. How rare, to love so easily. Juliette tied the bandage off, running her thumb over his knuckles.
Her touch was surprisingly soft. “You’re still not going to tell me why you punched a wall?”
Dominic grimaced. “You really saw that?”
“In agonizing detail.”
Dominic exhaled. “I’m not proud of my behavior. I don’t normally lose it like that.”
“Did Sinclair say something?” Her voice was careful. “About being dropped from your father’s team?”
“Yes.” Dominic’s jaw tightened. “But it was also about my mother. And also about…”
Also about you, he’d been about to say, which was a terrible idea. Juliette’s strawberry shampoo tickled his nose.
“About what?”
Dominic met her gaze. “I’m sure you can guess.”
Surprise flitted across Juliette’s face, followed by something like wariness. “You don’t need to defend me. I can fight my own battles.”
“I know that, but I also…” He could hear the helplessness in his own voice. “I can’t help it. Not when it comes to you.”
Juliette’s lips parted. She searched his expression, and Dominic’s heartbeat tripled. He’d said too much, hadn’t he? He opened his mouth, but then Juliette raised his hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the delicate skin of his wrist.
Shivers exploded down his spine. Her mouth ghosted up his arm, marking a trail to his shoulder, and Dominic half closed his eyes. His pulse was racing so fast that he was certain that she could hear it.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking for injuries,” Juliette murmured.
She pushed the collar of his shirt aside, her teeth grazing his collarbone, and Dominic clenched his jaw. “Marchmont…”
Her mouth found the shell of his ear. “It’s important to be thorough.”
Dominic gripped the counter. “We said we wouldn’t do this again.” He clung to that certainty, throwing it up like a shield. “Don’t test my self-control. Not tonight. Not when you’re dressed like this.”
He pulled on the hem of her shirt to demonstrate, which had the unfortunate effect of bringing her closer. Juliette looked at where his hand fisted the material, and something in her expression shifted.
“What if I want to?” Juliette murmured.
Her voice was low and sultry. He’d heard that voice before, Dominic thought darkly, when he was wringing little noises from her, and the thought sent a pulse of blood straight to his core. He bit back a groan.
“You don’t mean that.”
Juliette searched his gaze. “Don’t I?”