Page 50 of Best In Class
“I had a really big lunch,” Dom lies.
We haven’t eaten since breakfast, and in all honesty, I wouldn’t mind a fresh rejuvenation juice. But I wasn’t even offered a beverage.
Kirsten nods, though I can tell she’s disappointed. I almost feel bad for her.
Almost.
Mostly, I feel triumphant because Dom’s not looking at her. He’s looking at me.
He’s polite, attentive—but only about the building.
His eyes keep finding mine. There’s nothing performative about him. No vanity. No flirtation.
And I remember?—
I remember being sixteen, sitting on the porch steps with him, my head on his shoulder, while we whispered dreams into the dark.
I remember being twenty, curled in his bed the night before he left, thinking that we had forever.
He used to look at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
He still does, Luna.
It’s an epiphany. A shock. I’m going through the motions of being okay, but inside me, there’s a tornado of awareness.
It’s terrifying.
Kirsten’s still talking—something about thermal insulationand occupancy-based lighting—but it all blends into a dull hum, like the grown-ups inPeanuts.
Wah-wah-wah.
Dom is still looking at me like I’m the only person in the room.
And how do I look at him?
Well, according to everyone who knows me….
Just last week, Lev groaned,“Please stop the eye-fucking, yeah? He’s my best friend, and you’re my sister. I don’t need that visual burned into my brain.”
Then there was Stella, who said,“You two could light up Atlanta with the electricity between you.”
And Lia, smirking, teased,“If you’re so over Dom, Luna, why is it that when he’s around, he’s all you look at?”
Dom nods at something Kirsten says, engaged, but I see it in his body—he’s not focused on her.
He’s locked into the work. Into the way we’re moving through this space together.
His shoulder brushes mine as we turn into the hallway toward the private recovery rooms.
He murmurs, “Notice the corridor slope? That’s clever—pulls in airflow without overusing the HVAC.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I love that he does this, just drops in little observations, said quietly, like secrets passed between us.
“Kirsten,” I say, interrupting as she starts to veer off into a tangent about native plants. “Do you have any performance reports from the first year ofoccupancy?”
Her smile falters slightly. “I can pull those for you before you leave.”
“Great,” I reply smoothly. “Because we’re hoping to show real ROI for our donors, and that we’re building something more than pretty glass.”
