Page 5 of A Lethal Game of Trust
But Dom had handled himself. He still did now.
At 10:30 pm, it was too late to vacuum our wood floors, butI quickly swept them and then pulled the tie out of my hair, letting it fall in a wild mess. Grooves from the band made it fly out at odd angles.
I threw it back up.
When it came to pyjamas, my options were limited. I was in a baggy slogan top and ratty gym leggings that only my friend Rocco saw when he trained me. Most of my pyjamas were made of silk and lace, which I would normally parade around in, waiting for my ex to arrive and ravish me whenever he pleased. Or a pair of flannel pyjamas my mother’s nurses had bought me for Christmas.
My phone went off on my desk, the vibration nearly throwing it off the side.
ISSY: We’ll be up in two, but you may want to make yourself scarce. Dom needs to rant. And drink.
He was even worse after a drink.
Without time to think, I pulled out the flannels, tore off the tag and put on my slippers. Then I staged myself on the sofa, a leg underneath me, the blanket draped over my lap.
I should read a book.Yes, a book and some music.
All the books under the coffee table, piles and piles of them, were either smut of varying degrees with half-naked men on the covers or self-help books, titled along the lines of ‘Learning Not to Give a Shit’ or ‘Sort Your Life Out, You Mess’ or ‘Why Your Twenties are Just the Start’. None of them would do. Dom had to think my life was great. Perfect. Nothing to judge.
I needed more to drink. I topped up my glass of wine — just an inch, so it looked like I was halfway through — and then panicked at the empty bottle.
As I heard the key in the lock, I grabbed it and shoved itunder the sofa, having to use more force than I liked, worried I may, in fact, smash the bottle.
It was secure by the time I heard Issy’s laugh and their feet wiping against the doormat.
Issy’s face was red from the sun as she shrugged off her sheer cover. Stepping towards the coat hook, she cleared the view for me to see Dom.
Despite the humidity, he wore a light jacket over his black top. His shorts hugged his thighs tight, the power in each stride evident through them. I knew that when he turned around, they’d show off his perky ass, too.
I tried not to look at his face. I really tried. But it had been nearly six months since I saw him last.
Mia hadn’t requested for him to join us on nights out and I’d been successful in avoiding him.
He was more stupidly rugged than I remembered. Jaw as sharp as his cheekbones and as he shrugged off his jacket smiling at his sister, long dimples perfectly symmetrical cut into his cheeks even through the thick stubble. I hadn’t seen those dimples from a genuine smile in months and months. Once, those smiles had been aimed at me.
But, instead, his face fell flat when he saw me. The expression I’d imagined not so long ago was clear as day on his face, yet somehow more handsome. His voice was flat and deep, something that always ran through my spine against my better judgement. “You said she wasn’t here.”
Issy threw a ‘sorry’ over her shoulder, pulling off the baseball cap from her ginger-dyed hair. “I didn’t say that. I said she was busy.”
Overstatement. I’d spent five minutes stressing over what book I shouldpretendto read. As they came in, I grabbed oneat random.
“Nice to see you, too,” I said sweetly, “inmyhouse.”
His jaw stiffened.
“Vodka?” Issy asked, already in our cupboard full of alcohol.
He nodded, his eyes on me. “It’ll do.”
Even when he started dating Mia, and therefore having to see me more frequently, it didn’t fix our fractured relationship. In fact, he started to despise me more. Since my father died, the only form of affection he’d shown me was when the boy I’d lost my virginity to started blabbing to the whole school. Dom, eighteen, in the sixth form, punched him to the earth behind the bike sheds on his exam results day.
If I needed his help, if I was dying in the streets, he might answer my Instagram message. I didn’t even have his number. He may send an Uber. But he would spend no actual time on me. I was beneath him.
As she poured his drink, he came to sit on the arm of the sofa. The far arm. Nearly two metres away from where I sat.
Years ago, I couldn’t imagine the two of us in this situation.
“We could have stayed at the bar,” he groaned.
