Page 72 of Swept for Forever
It was so slight that no one else would’ve noticed.
But he had.
Before I could even register the hesitation myself, he’d stopped. No questions, no frustration, and no awkward silence pressing me to explain.
He’d just known.
And that,that, unraveled me more than any touch ever could.
“There it is,” he said, rubbing his palms together as our pizzas landed in front of us. He looked so blindingly pleased, like a schoolboy who found out pizza counts as a vegetable. Nothing like a high-powered lawyer.
The slices were huge and folded over themselves, the kind you had to eat with both hands or a serious lack of dignity.
I picked up one and took a bite. It was delicious, with a crispy crust, gooey cheese, and that perfect hit of basil. I made it through a couple of slices before setting the rest down with a groan.
Dom grinned at me over the rim of his glass. “Tapping out already?”
“Don’t judge me. These things are enormous.”
“I’m not judging. I’m impressed. That was a solid effort.”
He kept stealing sips of my lemonade, and he even fed me the last bite of his crust.
His plate? Wiped clean.
Mine? Still enough left to box up and feed a second customer.
“Hey, next time, how about dinner with my Buffaloberry crew?”
“Sure. Logan’s one of them, right? The guy who picked us up from that village?”
“Yeah. Logan will be there. And the Lucases. Good people. No pressure, and no giant slices, I promise.”
“Cool,” I said, and I meant it.
Dom glanced out the window, suddenly alert.
“Mind if I catch that guy real quick? He’s slippery as a wolverine.”
“Go ahead.”
He slid out of the booth and jogged after an older man heading for his car.
I swirled my lemonade, replaying the invitation in my head. Dinner with his friends. It didn’t scream a date-date. No big signals, no hidden meanings. Just a peek into his world. The kind of gesture that made me wonder if Dom often opened doors like that, or if this was new for him, too.
The pizzeria door chimed, and a man in uniform walked in.
I ducked my head.
But why? I wasn’t a criminal. However, just seeing a deputy sharing the same space, my body told a different story—my shoulders tight, pulse erratic, and the crawling sense that I might be expected to report something.
“Evening, Erin,” the deputy sheriff greeted the woman behind the counter. He held up a poster. “Mind putting this up?”
I stole a glance at the counter, keeping my head bowed.
Have you seen this person?
She folded a dishtowel and set it next to the coffee machine. “Sure. What happened?”
