Page 40 of Between Love and Loathing
“Clara,” he murmured as he walked right up to me, wrapped an arm around my waist and lowered his head to kiss my cheek. “Miss me?”
“Want the fake girlfriend answer or the real one?”
He waited a beat and pulled back to catch my glare. His eyes scanned my face, and it took every ounce of control not to turn away from him. I knew I was makeup free. No one showed up to my bakery during the day with the resort still being closed, and I’d been baking in peace.
The sound that he made vibrated so low and deep through my whole body that I felt it in my bones. “Is it the real Clara I’m looking at today?” He murmured it softly as his hand went to my chin to tip my face up to him. He dragged a thumb across my cheek where I knew freckles dotted my face. “If so, I’ll take real. Always.”
I licked my lips and his eyes zeroed in on them. “Dominic,” I whispered and stepped back. Being in his arms with his eyes looking hungry like that was dangerous. “You need to hear thefakegirlfriend version though.” I emphasized the word to make sure we both stepped back into reality.
One side of his mouth kicked up. “Go on then, fighter.” It’s like he knew what was coming.
“Well, since my boyfriend went somewhere all week and I haven’t seen or heard from him, I don’t miss him. I loathe him. Especially considering your distributor is giving me hell, and Rita is still pushing back on my next change.” I’d requested hanging floral decor that would match the soft pink wall. She’d emailed back that it wasn’t an option.
“I’ll remind Rita that you’ve been allotted five changes at your discretion.” He was smirking at me. The man, who never cracked a smile had the audacity to think all this was funny.
At least we were on talking terms and making headway with the bakery though. I stepped back, trying to distance myself from him. “You have fun on your little vacation?”
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Honestly?” He then pulled at the back of his neck and looked toward the high ceilings. “A design of mine is going to shit, so I needed to be there.”
“Oh.” What do you say when a man that never makes mistakes admits to one? “Want to talk about it?”
“The glass bridge is of architectural brilliance, but it’s outside, and when it rains—”
“People slip and fall?”
“Right. It’s been taken care of though. So, now we take care of getting you in magazines with me so the reopening of this resort doesn’t turn into a PR disaster.” He threaded his hand through mine and started to pull me toward the revolving doors.
“Where are we going? I’m work—”
“You need a dress for the reopening or just a dress so we can be seen out. It’ll solidify that we’re serious.”
I wrinkled my nose at the idea. Dresses were expensive. Thousands upon thousands of dollars that I didn’t have. And why did the idea of doing anything with him make me utterly nervous? I combed a hand through the hair I hadn’t even curled this morning because I thought no one would be seeing me. “Maybe we should do it tomorrow.” I glanced back at my bakery. I wasn’t doing much food prep today and would be busier tomorrow but … “I need to get ready. I can’t be seen like—”
“Like what?” he scoffed and then pulled me towards the entrance again.
“People are going to look at us together, and I didn’t do my hair or put makeup on—”
“And without the makeup, I see the imperfections that make you perfect.” He said it so easily, in that decisive tone that was meant to propel everything forward without emotion.
“Huh?”
“With nothing to define you, you’re just like everyone else, Clara. Your freckles, the way you blush, the way your lashes are a hint of red is what defines you. You’re painting over a perfect canvas.”
“I …” What did you say when an artist described your imperfections as perfect and pointed out your flaws as flawless? I tried to ignore the fluttering in my heart, the lurch into this relationship being real when it wasn’t. I huffed. “I need lashes and concealer and my hair curled. Did you know my mother—”
He opened a black SUV’s door for me without letting me finish my sentence. “Clara, I don’t give a fuck what someone else has said. You’re beautiful. Stop worrying about stupidity from your mother, who, if I recall, wields her beauty as a weapon quite a lot.”
“You think that of my mother?” I almost tripped getting into the car. “But she’s—”
“An elitist who probably taught you all the rules of high society?” He followed me in. “Am I correct?”
Why his take-no-shit attitude worked for me, I didn’t know. It felt straightforward without any twists and turns, no passive aggressive comments, no smoke and mirrors.
“Probably too correct,” I grumbled. I figured I wouldn’t fight him on going back to the house but when he tried to direct his driver, Callihan, to a small boutique, I stopped him. “Oh, Callihan, I’d like to try the department store over at the Promenade.”
Dominic eyed me curiously, and my heart beat fast as he did. I’d been creative in hiding the fact that I didn’t have much more than pennies to my name at this point. Shopping at a haute couture boutique wasn’t a luxury of mine at this point.
When he didn’t pry, I breathed a sigh of relief and changed the subject. “So, how did you fix it?”
