Chapter 28
Dominic
The only thing better than watching Mila peacefully sleep next to me is watching her eyes flutter open as I kiss her awake. Sunlight slices through the blinds, and a warm glow spreads across her already tanned skin.
For a moment she seems a little alarmed, as if she’s not quite sure where she is. I can’t blame her; she’s never slept in my bed before. Unless she came in here to clean, I’m not even sure she’s been in my room before.
“Good morning,” I say with a lazy grin. I am lying on my side, my head propped up on my elbow, staring down at her and playing with the curled strands of her long brown hair.
“Mm,” she hums softly. “Good morning.” Then she blinks a couple times before looking around the room. “What time is it?” she asks.
“Eight,” I tell her, and she settles back down.
“I don’t even remember getting in bed. Or driving home. Or getting in your car,” she says.
“You’re making me sound very guilty of foul play,” I tell her, and she giggles.
“I’m kidding,” she giggles. “I remember getting in your car. Willingly,” she emphasizes.
“Thank you for clarifying,” I say, and she smiles. “Though I don’t really remember falling asleep.”
“You fell asleep in the car,” I tell her.
“I don’t know why I’ve been so tired recently,” she says, and something flashes across her face, though I’m not sure what.
“I can think of a couple of things that might have worn you out,” I tell her.
“Ah yes. Kicking your ass in the ring. You’re right,” she says, and I tickle her for a second, making her shriek and snuggle into me.
“You’re a brat,” she says, pressing her hands to my chest, and I press my lips to her forehead in a kiss.
“You want coffee?” I ask.
“Yes, please,” she says, pushing herself up to a sitting position.
We decide to go out for coffee. I throw on some jeans and a t-shirt, and she slips into a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and an oversized, off-the-shoulder hoodie. She twists her hair into a thick, loose braid and slips into a pair of tennis shoes.
“I hope this isn’t too casual,” she says as we head out the door.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, and I swear she blushes again. “And you smell good too.”
I park in the VIP parking lot, and we walk around the corner to the coffee shop. “The Red Rider Coffee Shop?” she asks.
“It’s a play on words,” I tell her, opening the door of the shop nestled under the massive building. “You know…Little Red Riding Hood. Big, bad wolf.”
“Big bad…wait,” she says, connecting the dots. “Is this–”
“Bad Wolfe Security Solutions, yes,” I answer as we make our way to the counter.
“The whole building?” she asks.
“All forty-seven floors,” I tell her.
“With your own coffee shop underneath,” she says, and I have to admit, her awe gets me a little hard. It’s a nice stroke of my ego if I’m being honest.
“And a bar on the top floor,” I add.
“Wow,” she says as we approach the counter. Mila orders a hazelnut latte, and I order an Americano. We also grab two orange scones because they are hot and soft and truly are the best.
“Oh my god,” she mumbles as she bites into one. “You’re right. This is the best scone I’ve ever had.”
“Told you,” I say.
“I’m a little surprised, though. I didn’t see you as a scone kind of guy,” she says, and I smile, looking down at the scone in my hand.
“So…I don’t have a lot of memories of my mother,” I say. “I was in first grade when she passed away. But one thing I do remember is that she loves British baking.”
“Really? Was she British?” Mila asks, and I shake my head.
“She used to watch that old cooking show on TV and fell in love with Julia Child. We got her a cookbook, and she literally went through the entire book making every single recipe,” I say.
“Gosh, that must have been delicious,” she says.
“Most of it. But as a kid, I really just liked the sweets. Cookies, scones, pies.”
“Sounds heavenly,” she smiles. “What a lovely memory.”
“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the nape of my neck. “It’s one of the good ones. One of the few. I don’t usually like talking about my mom. Mostly because I don’t remember much. And the bad memories, the ones of her dying, are the most prominent.”
“I get that,” she says. “It never gets easier, even with time. It’s like, yeah, the cut heals to a scar, but the scar is sore when you bump it.”
Exactly.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get more time with your mom,” she adds, reaching across the table to take my hand.
“And I’m sorry you had to give up your dreams because of an accident,” I tell her. Then I get an idea. “I want to show you something.”
Mila gives me an odd look, but I get up and hold out my hand. “Where are we going?” she asks.
“You’ll see,” I smile, tugging her with me. We go outside and round the building, then come to a door where the windows are taped off with white paper.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Another room,” I tell her, typing in the code to get inside.
“Are we allowed in here?” She asks as I pull the door open.
I give her a look. “I own the whole building,” I remind her.
“Right. You’re rich. I keep forgetting,” she says with a little sass, and I’m not really sure if she’s kidding or not. No one’s ever said that to me before, especially not a woman.
Once we are inside, I look at her. Her eyes sweep over the pinewood hard floors, wall mirrors, the vast open space, and then back to me. “What is it?” she asks.
“Well,” I say, walking to the middle of the floor, my voice echoing through the empty room. “It used to be a gym. Then I think it was a yoga studio, but the owners moved to San Francisco. So now it’s empty again.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says, slowly walking the perimeter. “What do you think it’ll be next?”
“Maybe a dance studio,” I say casually, crossing my arms. I’m enjoying watching her.
“Really?” she perks up.
“It can be,” I say with a half-shrug and a small smirk.
Mila just stares at me and then laughs. “What do you mean?”
I stride slowly toward her. “I mean, it could be a good investment. I’d just have to advertise and hire a couple of teachers.”
“That would be amazing,” she says softly.
“You know anyone?” I ask.
“Do I know anyone what?” she asks, looking up at me.
“Do you know anyone who’d want to teach dance?” I ask and she just studies me, but a smile forms in the corners of her mouth.
“What are you trying to say, Dominic?” she asks, and I break character with a chuckle.
“I mean, if you wanted this to be a dance studio, if you wanted to teach dance and bring in other instructors, I can make that happen,” I tell her, and her jaw drops.
“You can?” she asks.
“Easy,” I say, and her face lights up.
“Oh my god!” she screams. “Okay, I’d paint this wall back here black for jazz, maybe with some modern cluster chandeliers here. And then I’d open up these windows at the top for light, and the bar would go here. And—” Suddenly she stops. “Sorry, I’m totally steamrolling this.”
“I don’t mind,” I tell her, moving to stand in front of her. “Steamroll all you want. I’d love to see you live out your dreams.”
“Those dreams have been on the back burner for a long time,” she says hesitantly. “Honestly, I don’t know how much heat is even under them anymore.”
“I do,” I say, pulling her close to me. “And I think it’s been on simmer for far too long, from the sounds of it.”
“Yeah?” she asks, gazing up at me, and I clip her chin between my fingers.
“Yeah. I think it’s time to bring it back to the front,” I say, and I press my lips to hers.