Chapter 16
Mila
As I sit at Flame, a small bar and grill on the edge of Beverly Hills, I glance towards the door more often than I care to admit.
I’m nervous, something else I don’t really like admitting.
Despite my crush on Dominic, I’ve never really gotten nervous around him before, but this time is different.
For one, we have never gone on a date together.
Not that this is a date. It is dinner at a posh little restaurant where celebrities go, though.
The menu items cost more than what I spend on an entire week’s worth of groceries.
I’m also nervous because of the nature of this…meeting. We are going to talk about our agreement. I think I’m getting cold feet.
I could make a run for it, slip out the back door, quit my job as his housekeeper and find another waitressing job at a place across town. Somewhere he’d never go. A wine bar, maybe. Or maybe a speakeasy. One of those you only know where it is if you already know where it is kind of place.
Sigh. Listen to me. Talking about uprooting my life all because of some man.
No. I have to do this. I need the money. I’m about to have a baby. God, just saying it, even if it’s only to myself, makes my head spin. I mean, I always assumed I’d be a mom one day. I also assumed that I’d be married, living in a cute little house, and in love.
I swallow hard, wishing that I could have a glass of wine when I see Dominic walking over.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says. “I was on the phone with a client who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“That’s all right,” I tell him, standing up. I was sitting at the bar while I was waiting, but I know he reserved a table for us. “What happened?” I ask.
“He took no for an answer.”
Dominic’s eyes scan over my outfit, a flowy, short summer dress. My hair is half down, half up and curled, and my make-up is somewhere between Housekeeping Mila and Ring Girl Mila.
“You look pretty,” he says. The words are dry, but they seem to just roll off his tongue. Like he means them, but isn’t good at complimenting people.
“Thanks,” I say, and we follow the waitress to the table. As we walk, Dominic puts his hand on the small of my back, sending heat through my entire body.
Jesus, I need to get a hold of myself.
Once we are sitting down with food and drinks ordered, he looks at me. His stare is intense. I know it means he’s ready to get down to business.
“Alright, let’s get started then,” I say.
“Why don’t you ever do your hair that way when you work at the house?” he asks, throwing me completely off route.
“What?” I ask.
“In all the time you’ve worked for me, I’ve never seen your hair like that,” he says.
“I don’t usually spend an hour doing my hair when I’m going to be scrubbing floors,” I tell him, taking a sip of water.
“You spent an hour doing your hair?” he asks, and my eyes widen.
“Can we just…talk about…”
“Right. Of course,” he nods, taking a breath and steepling his hands on the table. “Let’s go over the dos and don’ts first,” he says.
“Okay,” I agree.
“If you haven’t realized, I live a public life. Which means people are always watching me. To make this convincing, we are going to have to be seen together. A lot.”
“Okay. That shouldn’t be too hard since I work at your house, and I see you in the evening at my night jobs.”
“Right. But we’re going to need to go on dates. Dinners, drinks, shows if you’re into that sort of thing,” he says. He unwraps his silverware from the cloth napkin as the waitress sets down lobster and spinach queso with tortilla chips.
“Shows?” I ask, reaching for a chip.
“Sure. I can get tickets for the symphony if you’d like. Or the ballet.”
“The ballet?” I ask.
He looks at me. “If you’d like. We just have to make it obvious that we are together, serious, and exclusive.”
“Right,” I say.
“That includes affection,” he says. He struggles on the last word, and I smile.
“Affection?” I ask.
“You know, kissing. Holding hands…stuff like that,” he clears his throat and reaches for his Old Fashioned.
“Well, this is getting serious, isn’t it?” I tease.
Dominic resumes his normal grumpy face and dodges my banter. “You will have to meet my father. Not only will you have to convince him we are a real couple, but you’re also going to have to charm him. He gets off on belittling me, so he’s definitely going to be judgmental about who I am with.”
“Brownie points with your father, got it,” I say.
He ignores that. “Now let’s talk about the don’ts. Our physical relationship is public only. Behind closed doors, it will be civil and nothing more.”
“I agree with that,” I tell him. And I do. The last thing I need is for things to be complicated. Or more complicated, I should say.
“It is very important that we are monogamous. Real or not, you can’t be caught anywhere ever with another man,” he says.
“That might be kind of tricky considering I work at a bar serving drinks to men who are thirsty for more than just alcohol,” I tell him, dabbing my mouth with my napkin.
“About that,” he says, setting his drink down and going for a chip. “You’re going to have to quit your job.”
Dominic doesn’t look at me as he drags a chip through the dip and pops it into his mouth. Meanwhile, I’m gawking at him.
“Quit my job?” I parrot. “At the Cockpit or the Ring?”
“Both,” he says as he chews. “This is good. I wasn’t sure about cheese with lobster, but I think they used smoked gouda.”
“Both? You can’t be serious.”
Dominic’s eyes flash up to me, and he grabs his water.
“I’m very serious, Mila. Do you have any idea how much money I make?
What my net worth is? Go ahead, look it up.
I’ll wait,” he says with a nod. The waitress sets down our entrees: steak and mash for him and salmon and asparagus with wild rice for me.
They say pregnancy can turn you off to seafood, but for some reason, it’s really hitting the spot right now.
At this moment though, I am a bit distracted. I pull out my phone and type it in:
Dominic Wolfe Net worth
I hit search and half a second later, my jaw hits the floor. Dominic takes that as his cue to talk again.
“Now you see my dilemma,” he says.
“I’m not seeing how anyone with that many zeros in their bank account, following other numbers of course, could possibly have any dilemmas whatsoever,” I tell him. I take a piece of my salmon and dunk into the lobster dip before popping it in my mouth.
“The dilemma,” he says, enunciating the words, “is that a lot of those zeros include my inheritance. I don’t have access to those funds currently. Either way, any fiancée of mine cannot work at a bar.”
“You mean girlfriend. I haven’t officially said yes yet,” I kid, and he shoots me a look that could kill.
“You have to quit your job,” he says again.
“But I like my job,” I whine.
“Really? And what is it that you like about it? The ridiculous wig? Or having to take off clothes when you go to work instead of putting clothes on?” he asks.
“I’m a cocktail waitress. It’s the dress code,” I say, taking another bite.
“It’s degrading,” he says, and I chew more slowly.
“Well, I happen to be very good at it,” I say, looking down at my plate.
“You’d be good at anything you tried to do, Mila,” he says. I look at him, but his expression hasn’t changed.
“I have friends at the bar,” I say, but I think we both know I am running out of reasons.
“You can still see your friends. Invite them to the fights. You’ll be required to be at my matches to show your support. You’ve seen the girls sitting at the high-value tables. They smile; they dote–”
“They give the waitresses dirty looks,” I mutter.
“Don’t be like that,” he says. “I need a classy woman on my arm, and I want her to be just that. Classy. Kind. I would never marry a woman without manners.”
“And I would never treat waitstaff like they were less than me,” I say.
“One more thing,” he says.
“Is it a do or a don’t?” I ask.
“It’s a must,” he answers. “You have to move in with me.”
I nearly choke.
“Move in with you?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“As in move out of my apartment?” I ask.
“That’s usually how moving works, yes. Vacating one place to occupy another.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“What’s the big deal? You said it yourself; you hate your place.”
“But it’s still my home,” I clap back.
“Not anymore. Especially if we’re going to be engaged,” he says as he cuts a piece of his medium-rare steak.
I give him a deadpan look.
“Look, Mila. Prince Charming can’t have Cinderella living in a shack in the woods,” he says, and I squint my eyes in confusion.
“That’s Sleeping Beauty,” I say.
“Whatever. You understand what I’m saying. If we are going to be convincing, especially to my father, you are going to have to move in with me,” he argues.
“I am not going to be living with you, sharing a bathroom and sleeping in the same bed!” I say just as the waitress walks over with the check. Dominic hands her his card and shoots me a look.
“You won’t be sharing a bathroom with me, I can assure you of that.
You know the entire southern wing of my house is a secondary master suite.
You’ll have your own bathroom and king-sized bed.
There are even french doors that open up to the patio by the pool.
While we are doing Princess comparisons, I’ll have you know that this is not Beauty and the Beast–”
“Not even considering how grumpy you are all the time?” I ask.
“Not even considering how mouthy you are all the time,” he combats. “My point is, no part of the house is off-limits. Not the pool, not the grotto, not even the theater room.”
“You’re sharing your big TV with me,” I say, pushing the last piece of salmon around on my plate. “How generous.”
“I think the entire offer is generous,” he says, and for a moment I feel guilty.
“You’re right,” I nod, setting my napkin on the table. “I’ll do it. All of it.”
“Good. I’m giving you everything I can to make this work,” he says.
His offer is very generous, but I feel like I’m giving up everything.