Page 78 of Restore Me

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25

Sloane

Now

The engine of Dominic’s car purrs quietly as I scroll through social media on my phone in hopes of distracting the giddy butterflies swirling around in my stomach. The thought of having him in my bed again has my thighs clenching in anticipation and my heart beating triple time. I’m eager to get him home, but it’s been over half an hour since he went inside his building, and he still hasn’t come back down or responded to my text.

Worry tries to burrow its way into my chest, but I quickly dismiss it. No way is Dominic up there trying to find a way to tell me this is over. He’s made it very clear that he doesn’t regret this relationship, no matter how short-lived and ill-advised it may be, so whatever is keeping him probably doesn’t have anything to do with us.

Closing out my social media, I open up my work email and respond to a few messages from clients who have been working primarily with my senior designer, Sasha. I’ve just sent her a private e-mail telling her how awesome she’s doing when a tingle of awareness prickles across my skin. At first, I think it must be Dominic, but it’s nothing like the zip of electricity I feel when he’s near. This is something more creepy, like someone with less than good intentions is watching me from afar.

My head snaps up, scanning the front of Dominic’s building for any sketchy guys looking a little too hard at the idling car, but there’s no one out there except for a lone woman with bouncing curls in a dark trench coat marching towards the other side of the building where guests park.

“Relax, Sloane,” I mutter to myself.

The door to Dominic’s building swings open, and I smile like a fool when I finally see him emerge carrying a duffel bag as big as me in his hand. He wasn’t playing about spending every night together. But then I meet his eyes and my heart sinks. They’re dark and serious, and all of the playfulness he’s had most of the evening is gone. I wonder if it has something to do with whatever kept him in his place for so long.

He tosses his bag in the back seat then hops upfront with me. I stare at him, examining every inch of his body for a clue to the sudden shift in his demeanor. My eyes linger on the band-aid sitting in the palm of his left hand. I stare pointedly at it, and Dominic shifts it from my view.

That’s not suspicious at all.

“What happened to you?”

“Put on your seat belt, angel,” he orders quietly.

Despite my current irritation at him evading my simple question, the demand still makes a wave of liquid heat pool in my core. Ignoring his order, and my own ridiculous response to it, I get on my knees and reach for his injured hand from across the console.

“How’d you cut yourself packing an overnight bag?”

“Put your seat belt on, and I’ll tell you.”

I roll my eyes. “Tell me and I’ll put my seat belt on.”

Dominic releases a frustrated growl, pushing me back into my seat and pulling my seat belt across my body as soon my ass hits the leather. I reach for his hand again, but he manages to secure the belt before I can get a good grip on him.

“Stubborn woman.”

A sarcastic snort rips from my throat. “Well if it isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

He shakes his head and backs out of the parking spot. Surprisingly, my gaze stays glued to his face as he maneuvers us back onto the main road and heads towards my house.

“You sound like Mama.”

“And you sound like a man who’s avoiding a simple question.”

He sighs, looking over at me with soft, but serious, eyes. “I cut my hand.”

“Yes.” I nod knowingly. “The band-aid kind of gave it away. What I want to know is how you cut your hand and why you’re acting like it’s classified information.”

Three heartbeats pass, and I watch Dominic turn the truth over in his mind. Once. Twice. Three times before I see him decide to lie to me. I watch his lips part, disbelief twisting my stomach.

I hold up my hand. “Don’t lie to me, not about something as simple as this.”

The curt, dry look he gives me is meant to scare me off, to make me back down from whatever storm of emotions I’ve stumbled upon that he doesn’t want me to see. Except I do see them. Etched into the ridge of his brow and swimming in his eyes. Something is wrong, and either he doesn’t trust me enough to talk about it or the something wrong is….

Don’t even go there! You know what he wants. He’s told you that he wants this. How’d you go from a cut hand to him rethinking this entire arrangement?

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