Page 53 of Best In Class
“The one you get when you want to say something but you’re not sure.”
She sees me.
My heart hammers.
“You can tell me anything,” she vows. “Always. I’m your person, Dom.”
“I love you,” I blurt out.
No buildup. No speech. Just the truth, dropped between us like a smooth stone in still water.
She blinks. Smiles. And then she says nothing for a long time—just lets the smile stay.
Later, when we’re lying on the dock, lines forgotten, her head on my shoulder, and the sun warming our faces, she finally whispers it back. “I love you, too.”
That was the first time I said it. And the first time she said it back.
And now, years later, in the present, when she says “You looked like this” with that same soft smile, I know exactly what she means.
Because right now, sitting across from her, every wall down, every part of me open and laid bare…I feel like I’m sixteen again.
Wrecked. Hopeful.
Still completely hers.
“When I won the Pritzker,” I start, “you were the first person I thought of.”
She looks up, stunned. She didn’t expect this.
If I tell her about her father, she’s going to flip.
Not if, Dom, when. You can’t build this on a lie.
“I wanted to call you. Hell, I wanted to see you. Because none of it felt real without you there.”
She leans against the table, fingers idly tracing its surface. “I used to imagine calling you every time I got a new project. Every time I won a bid. When I got Savannah Lace off the ground, but….”
“But?”
She shrugs, still making patterns on the table.
“I wasn’t worth the call,” I state.
“No.” She looks at me, her eyes bright with emotion. “You weren’t.”
I draw in an unsteady breath.
A playful glint softens her gaze. “You didn’t call me, either,” she reminds me.
I hesitate, before responding, “I was scared you’d not talk to me.”
“Maybe I would have,” she murmurs, eyes fixed on something on the floor I can’t see.
“Yeah?”
She lifts her shoulders in what seems like a helpless gesture. “Yeah.”
“Nothing seems real until you’re there,” I confess.
