Page 8 of High-Rise Heat

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Yes,” Dom says stubbornly. “Yes, if you want her.” He nods in her direction. “Then I’m not going to get in the way.”

“You’d kill me.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Yes you would.” I stare at Dom, at the glass in his hand and the rosy flush of his cheeks. “You wanted to kill me in college when I got more girls than you and this would be exactly the same. Probably worse.”

“You want her, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. She’s phenomenal. We’re not debating that fact.”

“And she wants you. So, I don’t know why we’re debating any of this.”

“Serious?” I shake my head.

“Serious.”

“I’m going to give you one last chance,” I say, holding up my drink. “If you’re fucking with me, you better tell me. Tell me right now. I don’t want you pissed off afterwards when you gave me your fucking blessing.”

“No last chances needed. It’s a done thing,” Dom nods. “I know you’ve already made up your mind that you want her.”

“That’s not the point—”

“It’s exactly the point.” Dom raises his glass and downs it in one hot swallow. “You can’t stop inertia. You can’t stop an avalanche that’s already started.”

I stare at him, pretty sure that was a mind-fuck more than permission. But if that’s his attitude, if he believes this is already a done thing and he’s given up, then hell, Ilsa deserves better.

“What are you two conspiring about over here?”

Both of us look up to see Ilsa walking toward us. Her wrap flutters at her thighs from the breeze and the sun lights up the fabric with a caramel glow.

“Who can drink more whiskey,” Dom says, turning to smile at her with fake exuberance. She frowns at him.

“Since when do you drink whiskey?” Ilsa asks.

“Since my buddy here brought us some straight-from-the-mainland Irish gold. And this guy has the most refined whiskey palate I’ve seen this side of the hemisphere.” He nods to me and the bottle on the counter. “I’ve got a thing or two to learn from him about the nuances of barley malted alcohol.”

Ilsa turns to me and narrows her eyes. “You’re quite the instigator. You got him drunk, didn’t you?”

I raise my hands like an innocent. “I only claim to have brought the bottle. I don’t control what he says, or does, or drinks.”

“I may be a weeeeee bit tipsy,” Dom agrees, pouring himself another healthy glass.

“Hey, that’s expensive shit,” I scold, and Dom smiles.

“You can afford it,” Dom teases, before tilting his head and remembering my new venture. “Oooor, maybe not.”

“Not really the point.”

“Told you he was drunk,” Ilsa says, walking between us and picking up the bottle. She throws back a swig, straight from the open neck. “Jesus!” She curses after swallowing, looking at the label. A flush blooms over her neck and my pants tighten as she licks the remaining whiskey off her lip, my mind racing with a hundred dirty things that make me wish Dom wasn’t here. Her eyes lift up to meet mine and her pupils dilate.

“Okay, ladies,” Dom raises his overly-full glass, pulling our attention back to him. His gaze is on me with a sharp smile that I’m still not sure is permission. “I’m going to retire for the evening and write my report on today’s dealings.”

“Don’t write that now!” Ilsa snaps, nodding to his glass. “It’ll be a mess.”

“Nah, it won’t,” he counters. “I better get out what I can remember now, before this sweet baby obliterates the rest.”

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