Chapter 18
Cecily
"What the hell, Dominic?" I yank my arm away.
We come to a stop in the parking lot beside my car. The last rays of the sun filter through towering palm trees lining a nearby children's splash pad, sending odd-shaped shadows across our faces.
Dominic clears his throat. "I think I know what happened."
"Glad to hear it. So do I." I lean against my car.
Dominic fishes his phone from his pocket. "I have a feeling you won't believe me unless I do this."
"Do what?" I ask, watching him navigate his phone with his thumb.
He leans against my car too, a solid two feet from me. "Call the person I was talking to that day."
I pale. "You want me to speak with the person you were shit-talking me to? That's like...like...asking a cow if he'd like to eat a hamburger."
"It's not remotely the same." Dom holds the phone out between us. It begins to ring. And ring. The smug look on Dom's face slides away. Mine turns triumphant for a reason I don't understand. Pure spite, I think.
And then, the ringing ceases. A voice, male and enthusiastic, surges into the Arizona evening. "Dom, hey, how are you?"
"Miles, hey. This is random, but do you remember when you got stuck in the plot on Post Rising? And we went through an exercise to help get your wheels turning?"
"Of course. I thought my ship had sunk. Good thing I called you before I set fire to my laptop."
This guy, Miles, sounds grateful. Happy. I know Dom is a good literary agent, I saw what he did for Klein. Hell, his bio on the Whitaker Literary Agency website makes it sound like the sun shines from his backside. He and Miles clearly have good rapport.
"I'm happy you didn't do that. It's a great book." The smug look is back on Dom's face. "Remind me what exercise we used?"
Dom watches me listen, so intent on my face. He's waiting for the moment he receives vindication. I can tell.
"The inverse scene, you called it. Saying the opposite of everything.
You used yourself as an example. You were at a bar.
Something with an ironic name. And you were on a date, which before I started whining about my plot problem you'd said you were having a great time.
I still feel bad about interrupting, by the way. "
"No sweat," Dom answers automatically. "Keep talking."
"You showed me how the exercise works. You took everything you thought about the woman you were with, and said the complete opposite.
She has dull hair, she's boring, she's annoying with a bad laugh.
Oh, and you told me to spitball, too. Lay it on thick.
Be outlandish. You said something about Van Gogh and his ear. "
Dom's palm performs a celebratory slice through the air, as if he's a maestro. His face says Hah!
"Pipe down," I tell him, though he's said nothing.
I need quiet so I can concentrate on how wrong I was, even when all signs pointed toward an obvious conclusion.
Realization snakes through me, my memories of that day shifting in real time.
Heat steals over my cheeks as the scene in the hallway replays, but differently this time.
"Who is that? Why am I supposed to pipe down?" Dom's author asks, confused. "You called me, asking questions."
"She's talking to me, Miles. Thanks for all the info."
They say goodbye. I kick at a pebble with the toe of my sandal.
Dom tucks his phone in his pocket and slides closer to me. "Satisfied?"
"Is satisfied the best-fitting word to use right now?"
Dom crosses his arms, squinting against the early evening sun. The deepening golden rays darken his butterscotch hair, turning each lock molten. "How about you describe how you feel," he says, voice dry, "since I'm apparently inept?"
"You don't have to sound like this irritates you, Dominic. Why would you be skilled in guessing my feelings? You hardly know me."
His mouth tugs into a smirk. "Other than being married to you, of course."
"Obviously."
"Alright, Cecily. Tell me how you feel, now that you've been proven wrong."
"I don't know that I was proven wrong. I just wasn't proven right."
Dom shakes his head slowly. He shifts, but not away from me. Closer. He's not touching me, but I feel it anyway. His nearness. His intense gaze. The air between us tightens.
"I've never met anyone like you." His voice is a murmur, but there's something in it that's rough, too.
My chest heaves with a raw breath. What is this between us? The push and pull, the scramble for words, it's almost painful. Getting my bearings, I say, "You can blame your cousin for that." It would've sounded better if my breathy, soft voice hadn't betrayed me.
Dom's gaze roams my face as he sucks his lower lip between his teeth. "Believe me, I do."
We stare each other down. A face-off in a restaurant parking lot with distant sounds of kids squealing at the splash pad.
"Your turn," Dom finally says.
"My turn for what?"
"Tell your side."
"There's nothing to tell. I overheard you, and I got the hell out of there."
"Explain why I was paying the bill with the bartender who, by the way, became very hostile in my absence, when a group of young ladies crowded around me and began belting out Happy Birthday."
Before I realize it, I'm laughing. Giggling, really, and I don't giggle.
Dom narrows his eyes, pushing off my car and stepping in front of me. He doesn't lean closer, doesn't take up any more physical space, but somehow he envelops me. His smell. His persona. His emotions.
"What's funny, Menace?" A line of consternation forms between his eyebrows. His lips are full and upturned enough to let me know he is amused.
"Halston's hostility was out of female solidarity when she saw me leaving. She didn't know what happened until the next time I was in there. But the singing girls was absolutely me."
A flash of appreciation crosses his blue eyes. "You're diabolical."
Is this praise? A warm glow spreads through me.
Absolutely not. No. There's no way I like it.
Unacceptable. To neutralize the fuzzy feeling, I place my hands on my hips, ratcheting up the belligerence in my tone when I say, "I'd overhead you saying terrible things about me, and it was made worse by the fact that you otherwise appeared to be having a good time. What else should I have done?"
"I'd expect nothing less. Not from you."
"Not from me? Why does that sound like an insult?"
"It's not meant as one. Given what I know of you, the reaction was appropriate."
"We've already established that you don't know me."
He arches a brow. "But that's going to change, isn't it?"
"How so?"
"Have you forgotten the road trip in our near future?"
With Dom standing this close to me, I've nearly forgotten my name. "Of course not."
"I'm flying back to New York tomorrow afternoon. I'll be there for a couple days, replenishing my wardrobe and getting what I need from my office so I can work on the road."
"You sure you can work from the RV? What if there isn't Wi-Fi?
What if there's an author emergency? What if the motor home Savage Grandma booked is actually a piece of junk and the folding table collapses and your laptop falls and breaks and makes you miss a meeting and your boss is furious and then you get fired? "
Dom spends a few seconds letting my fatalistic monologue sink in, then says, "It will take a lot more than that to get rid of me."
My head dips sideways. "Like, how much?"
"I'm not telling."
"The threat of losing your job won't stop you from coming on the road trip?"
He shakes his head.
"What about..." I search my memory. "If every restaurant we go to I tell the waitstaff it's your birthday and they sing to you?"
A second shake of those butterscotch waves. Maybe I'm misreading it, but is that a look of challenge I see in his eyes? It's as if he's saying You can do better, Menace.
And I can. I can do so much better. "Dom," I say, imparting a breathiness to my voice.
I press a fingertip to his stomach, just an inch above his navel.
Jutting out my bottom lip, I walk my pointer and middle fingers up the midline of his body.
His throat bobs with a hard swallow. His hands, hung loosely at his sides, form fists.
My gaze lifts, and there he is, staring down at me intently, lower lip pulled away from top. Hunger burns in his eyes, carving out his breath until it's shallow.
This was supposed to be about torturing Dom, but dammit if I'm not aching now. His eyes tumble over my face, and I feel it like a caress.
I hate this man. I really do. My husband. I loathe him. Even if he does have an excuse for everything that happened. I loathe him on principle. I loathe him because otherwise I might—
NO.
I take back my hand as if scorched and rip my gaze away, forcing it out across the parking lot.
"Dom?" A voice calls.
"Cecily?" A different voice.
Dom takes a wide step sideways, making it easier for Klein and Paisley to see him. I stand up straight, smoothing out my hair and my clothes. I don't know if they're rumpled, or why they would be, but it feels like the right thing to do.
"Here," Klein says, looking at us with suspicion. He's holding two takeout containers. "Your dinners."
"Thank you," I say, avoiding Paisley's gaze. I can practically taste the curiosity rolling off her.
"Everything all good out here?" Klein asks. "I was worried we were going to find you two in cuffs on the curb."
Dom chuckles. "All good. We avoided a domestic disturbance."
His eyes find mine. I don't know about him, but I am plenty disturbed.