Carter
Chapter nineteen
By the time I pull into the drive, the sky has gone dark and heavy, like it’s carrying something it might drop. I’m running on nothing but habit and the lingering, bitter taste of library coffee.
I didn’t go to the track. I couldn't. Every time I caught a glimpse of the black fabric of the jacket tucked in my bag, my stomach performed a slow, nauseating roll. Instead, I retreated to the back corner of the campus library, burying myself in the only thing that felt stable.
I spent hours staring at a screen until the fluorescent lights made my eyes ache, trying to drown out the memory of Dominic’s smile with reconciliations and tax law.
I focused on the ledgers, the clean lines of debits and credits, and the comfort of a bottom line that always balanced if you worked it hard enough.
I tried to audit my own feelings, looking for the error in my judgment that led me back to him, but the numbers wouldn't add up.
No matter how many entries I double-checked, I couldn't account for the way he made me feel in that driveway.
The main house is quiet, but the pool is glowing—a rectangle of electric sapphire cutting through the dark. I see a rhythmic displacement of water, a dark shape cutting through the surface in a silent, punishing lap.
I don't stop to watch. I keep my head down, my bag heavy against my arm, and start the walk toward the pool house. I just need to get inside. I need to lock the door and pretend the last twelve hours never happened.
My hand is on the lever of the door when the splashing stops.
"You weren't at the track today."
The voice is rough, breathless from exertion, and closer than I expected. I close my eyes for a split second. So close.
The silence that follows is sudden and heavy. I freeze, my pulse thudding in my ears. Just go inside, Carter. Don't look back.
"You're coming in late tonight."
His tone is a low, rough vibration that cuts, anchoring me to the spot. My heart seems to move before my brain can catch up, a frantic, reflexive jerk in my chest that forces me to face him.
I turn slowly, my grip tightening on the strap of my bag. Dominic is hoisting himself out of the deep end, the water sheeting off his broad shoulders in the moonlight. He looks too lean, too powerful, his skin glistening with a lethal kind of grace that makes my throat feel tight.
He grabs a towel from a lounge chair, but he doesn't wrap it around himself; he just stands there, water trailing down the ridges of his stomach, watching me with an intensity that feels like a physical weight.
"Class ran over," I lie. The words feel like lead in my mouth. "Group project. We had a lot to get through."
Dominic doesn't move. His gaze takes its time, traveling slowly from my face down to my shoulders, then dropping to the side of my bag where his jacket is peeking out from the unzipped corner.
His eyes linger there for a moment longer than necessary. When he looks back up, his expression has shifted.
"Your cardigan is clean and inside," he says, flicking a thumb at the main house. His voice is level—too level. "If you need it back."
"Thanks," I say, my tone clipped. I shift my shoulder, deliberately obscuring the jacket. "I'm tired really, Dominic. Long day. I’m just going to head in and go ahead and call it a night."
I turn the handle, but he doesn't move toward the main house. He just stands there in the dark, his silhouette sharp against the blue glow of the water. He picks up on the wall I’ve built immediately; I can see it in the way the humor drains from his expression, the way he doesn't offer a flippant comeback.
"Carter—"
"I said I'm tired," I snap, and don’t bother softening.
I don't give him a chance to respond. I duck into the pool house and shut the door, the click of the latch sounding like a victory. I lean my weight against the counter, exhaling a breath I didn't know I was holding. Safe.
Point five seconds later, the handle turns.
The door doesn't fly open; it swings inward with a slow, deliberate weight that says he didn't even consider the possibility of it being locked. Dominic strides in like he’s simply reclaiming his own territory, his presence instantly shrinking the room. He’s still dripping, a trail of pool water marking his path across the floor, but he doesn't look like someone who just finished a swim—he looks like a person who's about to finish a conversation.
"Dominic, get out!" I yell, spinning around to face him. "You can’t just walk in here—"
"Tell me what’s wrong." He doesn't raise his voice, but the command in it stops me dead. He’s standing in the center of my living space, like the space adjusted itself around him, his eyes dark with a frustration that matches my own.
"Nothing is wrong," I lie again, my voice trembling. "I told you, I’m exhausted. It was a long day."
"Don't give me the version you’ve rehearsed, Shortcut.
I know when you're lying." He takes a step toward me, his presence filling the gap I’m trying to maintain.
"You went from looking at me like you wanted to rip my clothes off this morning to hiding my gear in your bag like it’s trash. What changed?"
"Nothing changed! Maybe I just realized that I don't want to be another girl walking around in your laundry. Does that work for you?"
The words are out before I can filter them. Dominic flinches, just a fraction, his eyes thinning.
"Another girl?" he repeats, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous low. "Is that what this is? Who’s gotten into your head? Sienna? Luka?"
What? Why would Luka matter? We were friends. It doesn’t make sense, but the way Dominic says it—coupling his brother’s name with Sienna’s like they are both variables in the same chaotic equation—makes my confusion spike into something ugly and panicked.
"It doesn't matter who I talked to! It matters that you have a routine.
" I find myself gesturing wildly, the anger finally bubbling over the exhaustion. "You make the moves, you pass the parting gift, flash the smile, and then you leave. It’s uncomplicated, right? That’s the word.
You stake a claim and then you head to the track and forget the fallout you leave behind. "
"You think I forget you?" He’s right in front of me now, so close I can smell the chlorine and the warmth radiating off his skin. "You think I’m that good of an actor?"
"I think you're a driver," I hiss, my hands balling into fists at my sides. "I think you're used to winning and then moving on to the next lap. I’m not a lap, Dominic. I’m not a trophy for your mantel."
"A trophy?" Dominic’s laugh is a harsh, humorless sound that doesn't reach his eyes. He paces a tight circle in the small kitchen, droplets of water flying off him as he gestures toward the bag on the counter. "You think I went through the trouble of branding you just to add a notch to a tally? You’re a lot of things, Carter, but you’re not a notch. You’re a goddamn headache. You’re the whole fucking migraine."
"Then let me be a headache in my own clothes!" I yell back, stepping into his path to stop the pacing.
Why did you look at me like that in the driveway? The question is a scream in my head, but I can't bring myself to say it out loud. It feels too much like admitting he cared.
"If I’m such a burden, why did you force me onto your team?
Why did you throw that event on campus if you couldn’t even tell me you wanted me there?
" I find myself gesturing wildly, the frustration finally boiling over.
"You're pulling me into your life and then acting like I’m a nuisance for being in your way.
I don't know how to handle these signals. I don't know what you want from me."
"You think I have a manual for this?" He shifts abruptly, looming over me, his chest heaving. "I’ve spent my entire life moving toward a specific point. Every turn, every choice, every person—it’s always been according to a plan. And then you show up and you just... mess it all up."
"I didn't do anything! I'm just trying to survive being around you without getting burned." I find myself poking a finger into his damp, solid chest, my voice shaking. "I don't know where I stand, and I hate it."
"You stand exactly where I put you!" he roars, grabbing my hand to stop the poking. His grip is firm, a solid weight that anchors me, but it isn't painful. "You’re the only person who doesn't look at me and see a standing or a paycheck. You don't see a brand to protect or a mess to clean up."
He pulls my hand closer to his chest, his eyes burning into mine.
"You look at me and see someone who’s 'reckless' and 'insufferable.' You see the parts of me everyone else tries to edit out, and you don’t even blink. It doesn’t scare you, and you aren't trying to fix me. You just... accept it. And I can’t stop coming back for that."
"Because I'm not one of your sponsors," I say, my voice holding level despite everything. "I don't need you to be perfect. I just need you to be honest."
"I don't know how to be honest without being a disaster," he admits, his thumb grazing the back of my hand.
"But with you, it's like the more I mess up, the more you just stand your ground.
You're the only corner I haven't mastered yet, and fuck, I'm losing my mind trying to figure out why you aren't running for the exit. "
"Because you like the challenge!"
I pull my hand away, the sudden distance between us feeling colder than the pool water dripping off him. My heart is hammering against my ribs, frantic and loud.
"That's all this is to you. You aren't losing your mind; you’re just bored. I'm the one thing that won’t fall in line, and you can’t stand the thought of a track you can’t conquer."
"Is that what you really think?"
His anger suddenly shifts, cooling into a sharp, precise focus that’s a thousand times more intimidating than the shouting. He steps back, his eyes searching mine, stripping away the defensive layers I’ve spent all day building in the library.