Page 20 of The Murder Club

“True.” Dom leaned toward the cardboard box in her hands, sucking in a deep breath. “Speaking of not being able to concentrate. That pizza smells amazing.”

“I also brought some sugar cookies I baked this morning.”

“You’re killing me.” He nodded toward the double glass doors in the center of the house. “The dogs will be fine. Let’s have some lunch.”

Bailey followed him inside, crossing through the living room that was lined with windows that overlooked the distant lake, and into the kitchen that was twice the size as Bailey’s entire house. Not that she envied her friend such a large house. After hours cleaning, the thought of scrubbing such a vast space was daunting.

Still, she wouldn’t mind having the gleaming, professional-grade appliances and the handcrafted cabinets, she silently acknowledged.

She moved to set the pizza and cookies on a table arranged in the middle of the ceramic-tiled floor, suddenly aware of a strange scent in the air.

“Have you been painting?”

“Sorry, yeah.” Dom moved to shove open a window over the sink, allowing in the crisp air. “Kaden hasn’t had time to finish a couple of the spare bedrooms. I thought I’d give him a hand.”

“That’s nice.”

Bailey took a seat at the table, relieved to have a distraction from her troubled thoughts. Although calling Dom Lucier a distraction was like calling a hurricane a stiff breeze. Just being this close to him short-circuited her brain in the best possible way.

Dom collected the bottle of wine that had been left to breathe on the marble counter and two glasses before joining her. There were already paper plates and napkins on the table.

“We’ve been friends for a long time,” he said, pouring them both a glass of the wine.

Bailey took a sip, appreciating the fruity sweetness. “How did the two of you meet?”

Dom grabbed a slice of pizza and consumed it in three large bites. “Like a lot of people, Kaden arrived in LA without much money or a place to stay. He had no idea how expensive it was to get an apartment, so he came to the pawnshop, where I was working, to trade in his motorcycle for some quick cash.” Dom took a drink of wine before grabbing another piece of pizza. “I told him to keep the bike and gave him the number of a buddy of mine who was looking for a stunt driver. He made the call from the shop and the rest is—as they say—history.”

Bailey reached to claim one of the pizza slices. Dom was drop-dead sexy and being with him made her feel as giddy as a teenager with her first crush, but Bella’s pizza was amazing. There was going to be hell to pay if she didn’t get her share.

“You started his career,” she said.

“No. I offered a suggestion,” he insisted. “It was Kaden’s talent that made his career.”

Bailey suspected that Kaden considered Dom’s contribution to his career more than a mere suggestion, but she didn’t press him. Instead, she chewed her pizza as she dredged up the few tidbits that she’d discovered about this man.

“Lia mentioned that you moved to LA from France,” she finally murmured.

“I did. I left home when I was sixteen.”

She blinked. “Alone?”

“Yes. My mother passed away and I wanted a fresh start.”

“That’s . . . amazing.” Bailey grabbed her glass of wine and took a deep sip. She’d considered herself daring for taking off at eighteen to go to college in Madison. It was the first time she’d ever been away from her grandmother for more than a sleepover with a friend. The mere thought of packing a bag and going halfway around the world to start a new life was terrifying. “I would never have had the courage to immigrate to a new country,” she confessed. “Especially when I was sixteen.”

His expression was impossible to read. “I didn’t want to be in France.”

Bailey grabbed another slice of pizza, her curiosity overcoming the good manners her grandmother had drilled into her.

“Why not?” she demanded.

He paused, his gaze moving toward the window that overlooked the yard where the dogs were busy playing.

“My sisters were older than me and they’d already moved away when my mother died. And Remy, the man who fathered me . . .” He shrugged as his words trailed away.

The man who fathered me.

Bailey didn’t need to be a psychologist to recognize the difference between saying the “man who fathered me” and “my father.”

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