Page 28 of You Rock My World
He finishes dabbing the cleanser. “Now you have to let it sit for a few minutes.” Dorian sets the bottle aside on the counter but doesn’t step back. We stay facing each other in his personal bathroom, too close, in a space that’s too private.
“I’m sorry, by the way.” I feel compelled to apologize. “About the mustache. I know it’s unprofessional, but I didn’t have a choice. I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Don’t apologize.” His jaw tightens as if he’s wrestling with what to say. “Your niece’s dad, he’s…?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I use a technique I’ve learned in therapy to talk about my grief without breaking down. To stay present and reduce emotional overwhelm, I focus on five things I can see—the frosted windows, stone tiles, the tub, the moisturizing jars, Dorian. Four things I can touch—the counter, a towel, my dress, Dorian. Three I can hear—a leaf blower in the distance, the faint hum of the air conditioning, any of Dorian’s songs that I can play in my head as clearly as if streaming them at top volume. Two I can smell—the cleanser and Dorian—and one I can taste. No Dorian here,I’ve no idea how he tastes. All I have is a trace of this morning’s coffee to focus on.
“His name was Daniel,” I finally say, my voice steadier than I expected. “He was a firefighter. We lost him three years ago.”
Dorian’s eyes soften with genuine sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Josie. That’s devastating. How old is your niece now?”
“She’s seven. She was only four when it happened.”
A slight frown creases Dorian’s brow as if he’s just grasped a memory. “Is that why you knew the firefighters who rescued us that day?”
I nod, a sad smile tugging at my lips. “Yes, those were Daniel’s old squad mates. They’re still like family to us.”
Dorian’s fingers graze my arm in a comforting gesture that has goosebumps breaking over my skin despite the heaviness of the moment. “Is he why you cried in the elevator?”
I nod. “The last time I listened to ‘Falling from the Same Sky’ was when my sister, Lily, asked me to help her clear the house of his things. It had been a year since he’d passed.” I swallow against the twisting emotions. “We put it on repeat and ugly cried the entire time we were collecting his stuff.”
“I’m sorry.” Dorian works his jaw. “And your sister? How is she doing?”
I take a shaky breath, voicing the worries I usually keep tucked away. “Honestly? I don’t think she’ll ever be truly okay again. Daniel was the love of her life, her soulmate. Losing him… it shattered her in ways I can’t even fathom. But she has Penny to live for, and so she pushes through…” Guilt seizes up my chest. “You know, I used to be so jealous of her. Of their whirlwind romance. They met and were married within a year, had a gorgeous kid the second my sister graduated from nursing school and had a stable job. I used to think how lucky she was…” I don’t know why I’m baring the darkest parts of myself. “And when she lost him…” I blink rapidly, glancing at the ceiling, willing the tears not to fall. Turns out my coping strategies still need work.
“Hey.” Dorian’s fingers slide down to give my hand a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to discuss it if it’s too much.”
Grateful for the out, I nod. “Can I take this cleanser off now? My lip is going numb.”
Dorian’s lips quirk into a smile. “Let’s check.”
He reaches for a fresh cotton disk and carefully dabs at the corner of my mouth. Every brief touch from him is like taking a direct hit from a bolt of lightning.
“Looks good,” he confirms. “I’ll get the rest.”
With gentle motions, Dorian wipes away the remaining cleanser. I focus on keeping my breathing even, but it’s a losing battle.
When he’s done, I stare in the mirror, needing a moment to collect myself. My upper lip is pink and tender, but the mustache is gone without a trace.
“What magic potion did you use on me?” I turn back to Dorian with a raised brow. “That’s not an off-the-counter cleansing milk.”
Dorian grins. “Busted. It’s a professional-grade makeup remover I use on movie sets. Basically a chemical peel.”
“Apparently so. Thank you.” I touch my lip, marveling at the smoothness. “Now that I’m presentable again, I should head back to the office.”
“Stay.”
I’m taken aback by the intensity of the single-word request. It doesn’t sound like a casual offer, it feels like a plea for connection.
He sounds so alone. How many people does Dorian interact with who aren’t on his payroll? I wonder if he has any friends. Or if his world has narrowed down so drastically post-divorce that the only interactions he has are transactional. Or maybe I’m grasping for an altruistic excuse to give myself permission to stay.
Before I can reply, he adds, “If you go, I’ll picture you eating a protein bar while driving and I can’t have that.” His tone is playful but sincere. “You have to eat anyway, and purse food doesn’t count.”
I should refuse, jump in my car, and get to work. But my other clients have been shifted to colleagues to clear my docket for Dorian. And while I’m sure I could find something to help with if I went back to the office, I’m not really needed there. Still, the professional thing to do would be to leave.
But he’s watching me with that world-blurring, cocoon-making gaze I can’t say no to. I’d say yes to matching tattoos if he looked at me like that and asked, and I’m terrified of needles.
“Okay, I’ll stay,” I relent. “But only for a quick bite. Then I really need to head back.”
