Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
PHOENIX
The omelet sizzles in the pan, edges crisping to golden perfection.
I stand at the Daniels’ ancient stove, spatula in hand, watching the eggs firm up with the focused determination of someone who only knows how to cook one thing and is going to absolutely nail it.
Everyone else is still asleep—or at least pretending to be—and I’ve claimed this pocket of solitude like a drowning woman clutching at driftwood in a raging river.
The back door creaks open.
I don’t turn around. Don’t need to. The scent that floods the kitchen is unmistakable—pine and sea salt and that deeper, richer note that’s become more familiar over the past few days.
Judah. Fresh from the water, still wearing his work gear, rubber boots tracking damp footprints across the stone tile.
He stops short when he sees me at the stove.
“You’re up early.”
There’s genuine surprise in his voice, I think. It’s hard to tell with Judah. The man is as difficult to read as a novel written entirely in his own private language.
I flip the omelet with a practiced flick of the wrist before glancing back at him. “Wanted to make sure breakfast was ready for you when you got back. Despite this ungodly hour. Seriously, the lobster need to learn that beauty sleep is non-negotiable.”
Judah just blinks at me.
The expression on his face is almost comical—like I’ve just announced I’m planning to juggle live lobsters while reciting Shakespeare backwards. He stands frozen in the doorway, one hand still on the door frame, salt spray still glittering in his dark hair.
I wonder, suddenly, when the last time was that someone went out of their way to take care of him. From everything I’ve gathered, Judah is the caretaker. The steady one. The man who holds everyone else together while quietly falling apart himself. When does anyone ever think to hold him together?
His throat works as he swallows. He starts to say something, then stops. His jaw tightens, ocean eyes flickering with something I can’t quite identify.
“How’s Mason?”
I slide the finished omelet onto a plate, keeping my movements casual despite the sudden tension thrumming through the air. “He’s fine. Still asleep. Atticus is watching over him.”
Judah nods, the motion jerky. His jaw is so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath the stubbled skin. He slowly removes his outer jacket and slings it on a wall hook before sinking into a chair at the table.
I set the plate in front of him and slowly back away. Stay casual, Phoenix. Stay calm. We’re dealing with a mated alpha being kept from his mate, and the last thing this situation needs is more drama.
“Is Dom coming over this morning?” I ask, fiddling with the knob on the stove. “I can make an omelet for him, too.”
Judah pauses mid-bite, fork hovering between plate and mouth. “He stayed the night, actually. In his old room.”
“Great.” I set down the spatula and wipe my hands on a dish towel. “I’m going to go see if he’s hungry.”
Judah’s eyes widen. “Maybe you shouldn’t—“
But I’m already out of the kitchen and bounding up the stairs, grateful for the distraction.
Upstairs, I find Dom’s room almost immediately.
It’s impossible to miss, actually, because there’s an old hand-painted sign on the door that reads KEEP OUT in aggressive block letters, accompanied by a skull and crossbones drawn in what is clearly a teenager’s hand.
The paint has faded with age, the edges of the letters softened by time, but the sentiment remains crystal clear.
Dominic Romano, even as a kid, was apparently very much not interested in uninvited visitors.
I knock anyway. Brisk and cheerful, because I’ve never once in my life let a sign tell me what to do.
From inside: a grumbled, muffled sound that could be “come in” as easily as “go away and don’t come back.”
Undeterred, I push open the door.
Dom’s old room is a time capsule of adolescence.
Band posters cover nearly every inch of wall space—some familiar, some so faded I can barely make out the names.
Metallica. Guns N’ Roses. Something called Rage Against the Machine that sounds appropriately angry for teenage Dominic.
A shelf of dog-eared paperbacks lines one wall, their spines cracked from repeated reading.
Motorcycle magazines in a tottering pile.
A set of free weights in the corner, probably untouched for years but still gleaming like someone’s been polishing them.
A leather jacket draped over a desk chair, the leather cracked and softened with age.
But what really catches my eye is a row of framed awards on the narrow shelf beneath the window.
Five of them, lined up with careful precision that seems wildly at odds with the organized chaos of everything else in this room.
They gleam—no dust, no fingerprints, glass recently wiped.
These aren’t relics from Dom’s teenage years.
The frames are modern, sleek black metal, and the certificates inside bear dates from the last few years.
Northeast Regional Flair Bartending Championship — First Place.
Maine State Mixology Competition — Gold Medal.
New England Craft Cocktail Invitational — Best Original Recipe.
Then my gaze moves to the bed.
And Dom.
Clearly, I just woke him up. His hair an absolute disaster—black shot through with silver, sticking up in every direction like he lost a fight with a hurricane.
He’s shirtless, blanket pooled at his waist, tattoo sleeves on full display.
The ink catches the weak morning light, swirling patterns of black and gray that tell stories I’ll probably never know.
His chest is lean and defined, the kind of muscle that comes from actual work rather than gym vanity.
I’m momentarily distracted.
Okay, more than momentarily. The man looks like he was carved out of marble by someone with very specific aesthetic preferences and absolutely no sense of modesty.
The tattoos only make it worse—or better, depending on your perspective—tracing patterns across his collarbones, down his arms, disappearing beneath the rumpled blanket in ways that make my brain short-circuit.
Stop staring at his chest, Phoenix. It’s rude.
I force my gaze away from the extremely distracting landscape of Dominic Romano’s torso.
My attention lands on the wall above the headboard.
And that’s when I see it.
A poster.
A massive, unmistakable promotional poster from my Ally’s World era.
Younger me, probably ten or eleven, with a bright smile and the show’s signature logo splashed across the bottom in garish pink and purple letters.
The colors have faded slightly with age, but it’s clearly been well-preserved.
Carefully hung. Maybe even re-mounted at some point, given how straight the edges are despite the obvious wear on everything else in this room.
The silence that follows is enormous.
Dom follows my gaze. I watch the color drain from his face in real time—a fascinating process that takes approximately two seconds before flooding back in a spectacular rush of red that reaches the tips of his ears.
I stare at the poster.
Then at Dom.
Then back at the poster.
My brain processes this information with the speed of a computer trying to load a particularly large file. Dominic Romano—too-cool-for-school bartender with a criminal past—has a poster of me hanging above his bed.
A poster he has clearly kept and maintained for over a decade.
I should be creeped out. Should feel uncomfortable, violated, all the things I usually feel when confronted with evidence of male attention I didn’t ask for.
Instead, I think I’m…flattered?
And also amused. Deeply, profoundly amused.
Because this is the guy who acted like he barely recognized me at the Seafoam Inn.
This is the guy who didn’t bat an eye when Mason introduced us, who treated me like just another person rather than a celebrity worth noticing.
This is the guy who’s been playing it so cool this whole time, so blasé and unaffected—
And he’s a fan.
Or was, at least.
Dom looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. His face has achieved a shade of red I didn’t know was possible outside of cartoon characters. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“It’s from when I was a kid,” he manages finally, voice strangled. “I haven’t even been in this room in—“
I lean in, inspecting the poster. “Wait. Is this limited edition?”
The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He drags both hands down his face, fingers pressing into his eye sockets like he’s trying to physically block out this moment.
“I waited in line with Mabie during a mall tour,” he admits, the words muffled by his palms. “Back when the show first came out. I was in middle school.”
I take a step closer, eyes roving over the paper. “It’s not signed, though.”
Dom huffs, crossing his arms over that distractingly bare chest. “The event charged extra for that. Didn’t have the cash.”
We just look at each other for a long moment as I consider this.
“Do you have a Sharpie?”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“A Sharpie. A permanent marker. You know, something that writes on glossy paper.”
He gestures vaguely toward the desk “Probably. Why?”
“Because I’m going to sign this poster. Obviously.”
“You don’t have to—“
“Oh, shut up, Dom.” I’m already crossing to the desk, rummaging through a pencil cup that contains three dried-out pens, some old-fashioned #2 pencils, a handful of loose change, and one permanent marker. “Let’s just hope this isn’t dried out. Looks like you haven’t used it since high school.”
“Phoenix—”
“Shush.”
I pull the cap off the Sharpie and turn toward the poster. It’s hung high—too high for me to reach comfortably from the floor. The bed is the only option.
I climb onto the mattress, bare feet sinking into the rumpled sheets. Dom makes a sound of protest that dies in his throat when I wobble slightly, and suddenly his hands are on my legs—one on each thigh, steadying me without being asked.
His fingers are incredibly warm, even through the fabric of my jeans.
Thick fingers, calloused from years of mechanical work, wrapped around my lower thighs with a grip that’s firm but careful. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me that I absolutely do not have time to examine right now.
I reach up and scrawl my signature across the lower right corner, adding a small heart for good measure. The Sharpie glides smoothly across the glossy paper, leaving behind dark permanent ink.
“There.” I hop down from the bed, landing with a soft thump on the worn carpet. “Now this will actually be worth a few bucks if you want to sell it on eBay.”
Dom’s hands are still hovering in the air where my legs used to be. He stares at the poster, then at me, then back at the poster. His expression cycles through several emotions too quickly to identify before settling on something that looks almost like wonder.
“Thanks,” he says finally, voice rough.
“Breakfast is ready downstairs. If you’re hungry.”
I turn and head for the door, not trusting myself to stay any longer. Not trusting myself to examine why his hands felt so good against my skin, or why the sight of that poster made my heart do something strange and fluttery in my chest.
I can still feel the imprint of his fingers on my thighs as I walk back down the hallway.
Something tells me it’ll be a bit before the echo of that sensation eventually fades.