Page 21 of Down Knot Out
He purses his lips in thought. “Ten?”
“Okay, so you’re telling me to whip out forty to fifty term papers, all from my imagination, with no quotes pulled from reference material. On top of that, I have to juggle a detailed, multi-level plotline and manage over a dozen personalities in my head.”
He winces. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“I am fully capable of typing eighty words a minute. Do you know how many I can type when I’m creative writing?” I lean forward and hold up two hands, fingers spread. “Ten, Dominic. I can averagetenwords a minute. Do you have any idea how stressful it is, knowing what I’m capable of and still only averagingten?”
His lips twitch, and he catches my hands, drawing them to his chest. “Okay, I get it. It’s wayharder than just sitting down and doing the work. I’m sorry.”
My chest heaves from my whispered rant. “Well, it’s also about butt-in-chair.”
“Butt-in-chair?” he questions.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “Just me keeping my butt in front of my laptop until the magic happens. Sometimes, I even average forty-one words a minute. But it’s not the standard. That only happens when I’m super inspired.”
“I should read your books.” His voice drops lower, the hint of his Alpha purr sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Holden says they’re good adventure stories.”
Blood rushes to my cheeks as I recall all the sex stuffed into those adventures, and I realize how close I am to Dominic. Nearly on his lap. Definitely within his personal bubble.
The air between us thickens as I become hyperaware of the space where our bodies touch, the warmth of his elegant fingers cradling mine. Beneath my palms, a light vibration starts up, and my ears prick at the almost imperceptible purr coming from Dominic.
My lips part, but no words emerge. What are we doing? What is happening right now? He’s notmy bully anymore, but also not my friend. Not my lover, not my boyfriend, not my Alpha.
The bond hums in answer to his hesitant purr. My Alpha. My bondmate. The Omega in me knows it, even if my mind still struggles to accept it.
“Chloe.” My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer. “Do you think it’s possible?—”
“Dominic Sterling?” A nurse in blue scrubs calls from an open doorway.
The spell breaks, and I jerk backward, collapsing into my chair.
Dominic’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his features before he masks it. He stands and turns back to me. “Come back once I’m done with x-rays to hear the results?”
I nod, my throat too tight for speech. As he follows the nurse through the door, my attention remains fixed on his broad shoulders until he disappears around the corner.
Alone now, I exhale a long breath, willing my heartbeat to slow. The vinyl chair creaks as I sink back into it, the room colder without him here.
To distract myself, I pull my phone from my pocket, but the screen blurs as my mind replays our interaction. What was he about to say before the nurse called him? And why do I fear the answer as much as I crave it?
A mother across the room bounces a fussy baby on her knee, her exhausted murmurs a glimpse into a life I’ve never considered for myself. It’s hard to dream of a family when you live the hermit life, and I had pretty much resigned myself to being a spinster author living vicariously through Grady.
But now? My fingers find my collar again as my focus shifts to where I last saw Dominic.
I both hope the x-ray turns up nothing and hope it does so at least we’d have an answer for why he’s still in pain. The doctor warned about concussion symptoms that linger and the need for caution. The thought of Dominic in pain twists an emotion inside me that I’m not ready to name.
The rhythmic click of heels on linoleum breaks through the quiet of the waiting room, sharp, staccato, and with a familiarity that straightens my spine before I see her. The sound is embedded in my muscle memory, the click-clack that preceded scoldings, disappointments, and rare moments of affection.
Not wanting to, I lift my head as my mother stops in front of me. Vivian’s dark pink hair is styled in a chignon, and my own messy pink bun feels childish in comparison. She wears a cream-colored pantsuit that accentuates the length of herlegs, her six-inch heeled boots adding to the illusion.
One sculpted pink brow lifts. “What, no kiss for your mother?”
The last time I saw her, she had left me imprisoned with Louie, yet years of conditioning pull me to my feet, and I rise on tiptoes to kiss her cheek. “Hello, mother. What are you doing here?”
“When you refuse to take my calls, it leaves me no choice but to track you down.” She lets out a put-upon sigh. “Come now. You can’t hold that whole courtship thing against me forever. Stop pouting.”
The elderly man across from me suddenly finds his outdated magazine fascinating. A pregnant Beta by the window shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
“I have a restraining order out on you,” I remind her as I resume my seat. “How did you find me here? Were you lurking in the corridor until Dominic was called back so you could ambush me alone?”
