Chapter 4
LINDSAY
That fucking bartender. Dominic. With his perfectly heart-shaped lips, and his thick forearms, and that…
that fucking Southern drawl that under normal circumstances I would find grating, but coming from him, felt like a warm cloak curling around my shoulders.
He just had to lure me in with free drinks and then take care of me when I overindulged.
Then he just had to buy me breakfast and practically leap at the chance to watch those random children at his bar.
Maybe it was an act. He can’t really be that selfless, can he?
Anyone can maintain a mask of chivalry for a short time. I bet if I were to spend more time with him, that would fade. It always does. There are no greater actors in this world than men in a new relationship.
They all leave eventually.
My mom’s words ring in my head. I was barely eleven when she told me that.
She and my dad were in the middle of a massive fight, the one that would ultimately lead to their divorce––a divorce that her own parents vehemently opposed regardless of how unhappy she was because of how stigmatized divorce is in Korean culture––and she offered the four words that would stay with me even decades later.
All when I tried to get her advice about a crush I had on a boy in my English class.
To be fair, my dating record has yet to prove her wrong.
My most committed relationship was with Billy, the father of my child, and we were hardly a good match.
Even at our happiest, he’d constantly let me down.
In the best of times, it’d be little things, like ordering black olives on our Friday night pizza when I’d told him multiple times that I hate black olives, or forgetting plans we’d made and choosing to meet up with his friends instead.
At our worst, he’d get mad at me for talking to another man in front of him and leave me stranded at the bar, or that time he showed up late and high to the birth of his child when I had been in labor for sixteen hours and had to get an emergency C-section.
Yeah, that one was the final straw. Even now, he’s a sorry excuse for a co-parent. It’s a miracle if he makes time to see Jules more than once a month.
So to witness a man joyfully offering to watch two kids while he’s at work simply to help out a friend? It blew my mind.
It’s been three days since I left Mapletown, and there’s something about Dominic that I can’t get out of my head. There’s a familiarity about him that puts me at ease. Though, I’m pretty sure I’d remember meeting a zombie, so I must be imagining it.
I blame those lips of his for this weird fluttering in my stomach.
I’m in the middle of a video call with one of my clients when I realize I’ve been daydreaming about Dominic’s lips for so long that I have no idea what my client just said. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
His bushy gray eyebrows pinch together as he sighs.
“I said, how does the data look for the Instagram ad?” He’s the CEO of a local sandwich chain, and I know that having these calls with me is like torture for him.
He underestimates the power of social media and is dying to prove to me that an online presence doesn’t make a lick of a difference in their success.
Most of the time, he looks one yawn away from dozing off while I’m talking.
I clear my throat as I quickly switch over to the Excel tab with months of analytics for each platform.
“Promising. Engagement is up forty-six percent since the last ad with the new Bruins defenseman. Now, we know we aren’t likely to beat that success, but if we can continue to ride that high into the seasonal menu change announcement in two weeks, I’m certain you’ll see that reflected in your daily sales. ”
He chuffs with a roll of his eyes. “We’ll see, sweetheart.”
If only you could slap someone through a computer screen.
“The Revere location is still tanking us.”
There’s not much I can do about that, considering the surly former manager is the reason for the litany of one-star reviews.
Instead of telling him that, I put on a determined smile and say, “Until the winter menu kick-off event, we have to be patient. The reviews have been steadily improving since the staffing change, but without a major catalyst like this event driving people through the doors, it’s bound to be a slow climb. ”
I’m gifted with a skeptical scoff before I politely end the call, urging him to trust the process.
The next few hours move at a snail’s pace as I endure back-to-back meetings with the leadership team about budgets and acquisitions we’re planning for Q1.
When I make it back to my desk, I flop into my chair and gaze distantly out the window at the darkening sky.
Pretty soon the sun will set long before I leave the office each day, and the commute home will become a deep dive into the question, am I about to get fired or is this just perimenopause?
There was a time when I enjoyed winter in the city.
That first chill gave me an excuse to don my finest wool coat.
The first flakes falling and dusting every surface, set against the scent of residential furnaces burning wood.
But after the first year of icy, unshoveled sidewalks and dirty piles of snow that refused to melt, the magic began to wear off.
I’m lucky that the building manager of my apartment shovels the sidewalks so I don’t have to, but still, it’s a hassle to go anywhere when you have to traverse tall mounds of muck covering the unshoveled areas.
A beat after starting the car in the parking garage, I feel my phone buzz in my coat pocket.
I’m certain it’s Jules begging for a veggie burger and fried mac and cheese bites from the place near the apartment, but a surprised squeak rushes out of me when I see Dominic’s name.
Actually, the name flashing across my screen is “Dominic the Beefcake,” so I’m guessing he added his number at some point when I wasn’t looking.
Dominic the Beefcake: Has the hangover passed yet?
I feel my mouth pulling into a smile and actively work to undo it, silently cursing my body for its eager reaction to him. After typing and deleting a few replies, I decide fucking with him is the best way to proceed.
Who is this?
His response is immediate.
Dominic the Beefcake: Come now, Lindsay Abbadelli. I know you know. Have you changed my contact info yet, or am I still Dominic the Beefcake?
Why not Dominic the Buffoon? Or Dominic the Brutish Bonehead.
Dominic the Beefcake: Say more big words.
None of those are big words, and I’m considering blocking you altogether.
Dominic the Beefcake: That would be a damn shame.
Would it, though? Let’s hear your pitch.
Instead of a text, I get a photo of him standing shirtless in an empty field as the sun rises in the background.
Beams of orange and pink dapple his green skin in the sunlight, making the thin scars that cover his body glow in bright silver.
I want to trace them with my tongue. His head is tilted down as one of his hands is pressed lightly between his naked pecs.
With his other hand fisted at his side, the veins along his forearm pop from the surface.
“Jesus Mildred Christ,” I mutter through heavy breaths, then quickly peek out the windows of my car to see if anyone is close enough to catch me salivating over this pretty monster.
And that’s precisely what he is: pretty.
So pretty that I’m enraged when his next text appears and the notification blocks his face in the photo.
Dominic the Beefcake: Annnnnd now a silly one.
The next photo is set in the same field, probably after the first one was taken, based on the slightly higher beam of sunlight coming off the horizon.
Instead of a thirst-trap pose, he’s hunched over with his palms pressed beneath his chin.
Tiny rolls form beneath his ribs, and his eyes are crossed as he lets his tongue hang out the left side of his mouth.
I choke out a laugh as I stare at it. What a ridiculous man.
Dominic the Beefcake: Verdict? Still ogling?
I appreciate how aware he is of his beauty and how deeply unserious he is about it.
Okay, fine. Very persuasive argument.
Dominic the Beefcake: If I had a tail, it’d be wagging.
And the beefcake has me laughing again. Damn it. He’s a relentless flirt, but I get the feeling he’s like this with everyone, so I’m not going to think too much about it. It’s also nice to talk to someone. I don’t do much of that outside of work and Natalie.
Yes, the hangover has passed, but those were a rough few days. I might be too old to drink like that.
Suddenly, I’m self-conscious about him seeing me in that state.
My fingertips graze along my chin, seeking the comfort only my worst habit can provide.
What did my therapist call it? Mapping, aka the subconscious act of using one’s fingertips to look for blemishes, scabs, or other irregularities on the skin’s surface to pick at.
Doesn’t matter if picking said scab makes me bleed, and I don’t know why.
I’d still rather have the smoothness of a permanent scar than the rough exterior of a healing wound, and I hate myself for it.
Apologies for being such a mess.
Dominic the Beefcake: Nonsense. You were lovely. Uninhibited looks good on you.
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.
Steam was let off. I think the pain was worth it.