by Ember Leigh
“Of course, of course,” Dr. Dom tells her, nodding. I drift closer to them, unable to prevent myself from wanting to know more.
“You treated him so kindly,” the old lady is saying. “And I…I can’t tell you how much that means to me.”
“Mrs. Wilson, your husband’s health is the most important thing to me. And I mean that. I’ll be checking in daily with you to see how he’s recovering.”
Mrs. Wilson swipes at her face—maybe she was crying. My heart hurts for a moment, but everything explodes in my chest when he pulls little Mrs. Wilson into a hug. Her voice is muffled as she mumbles, “Thank you,” into his chest—the lucky lady—and then before I have time to act natural, he’s heading this way, adjusting the cuff of his coat sleeve.
“Dr. Daly,” Nancy begins, as he breezes past me. I grip the wall for support. He is vetiver and mahogany. Dripping with pheromones. And completely fucking ignoring me.
He heads into his office, leaving the door hanging wide open. I look between the door and her, my brows drawing together. “Does he…does he even see me?”
“I left the door open for you,” Dom intones from the office. I peer inside. He’s standing behind his desk, fingertips steepled on the surface, looking up at me like he can’t believe I don’t get it.
“Don’t listen to the tone,” Nancy says in a low voice, as if she doesn’t want Dom to hear. “Just think about the words.”
Whatever it takes to coexist with this peach of a man. These must be her survival techniques.
I head into his office, shutting the door behind me. He barely looks up from his desk as I approach, maintaining his stance even as I slink into the chair facing him. He looks distracted, but somehow pained.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He blinks a few times, not looking at me. “Not exactly.”
“That was a surprisingly sweet moment,” I offer. “I wasn’t aware that you had the capability of being nice to people.”
This comment doesn’t have the intended effect. His face hardens. “Are you being sarcastic?”
“I heard what you said to that woman out there.” He still doesn’t seem to understand what’s notable, so I add, “Most doctors I know wouldn’t spend even a second more than necessary with a patient. And you even hugged her. So that’s like, one gold teddy bear sticker right there.”
“Teddy bear,” he repeats as he sits down and whatever fog that held him captive is letting up.
“Oh yeah. Trust me, you need as many teddy bear stickers as you can get.”
He wets his bottom lip, which almost impregnates me on the spot. “I don’t want any of them.”
“Yeah, well, your general demeanor would benefit from having a couple laying around, if you know what I mean.”
His blue gaze slice through me. “Says who?”
“Oh, I don’t know, pretty much anyone who has to come in contact with you?” I shouldn’t be talking to him about this. I should just let him be a jerk and move on with my day. But there’s something about Dom that invites me to push against him. He might be rough around the edges, but I have a nail file and I know how to use it.
“The people who matter will be able to handle my general demeanor,” he says, his jaw flexing.
“Great. Glad to know where I stand.” I gnaw on the inside of my lip as I plop angrily into the chair facing his desk. I rummage through my briefcase for the portfolio of matches.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle me.” His voice is rough whiskey. And just like that, electricity prickles through the air. I glance at him, my brows knitting together. He’s implying that I’m one of the people who matter, and the insinuation pumps the brakes. I desperately need to just complete my mission and leave. But now, I want to follow this detour.
“Listen, I need to make this quick. I have a lot of other clients to tend to, people who are actually enthused about the work I do and the approach I take. So I’m dropping this off with you.” I set the portfolio on his desk, distinctly aware of the fact that he hasn’t looked away from me. Not once. And his stare is beginning to leave burn marks.
“What is it?”
“Your matches.” I offer him an obviously fake smile. I’m trying to find that happy medium between professional and snarky, but he’s making it hard. He blasted the door off normalcy when he took things down Dickhead Lane, so I think I’m warranted in returning what he dishes out. “Here is the fruit of all my pointless labor.”
His jaw is clenching and unclenching, and I can’t tell if the storm in his eyes is preceding a laugh or an insult. Maybe it’ll be both. “Are you done?”
“With what? The job you hired me for? Actually, no. We still need to review these matches, and then set up the dates. I thought it was pretty clear that the job would be done once you were, you know, married.”
“I meant done being angry at me.”
I blink. “Nope. I’m not done with that either.”
He finally looks away from me, the corners of his lips curling. “You’re definitely going to want to drink a glass of water later.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re so salty.” There’s humor in his eyes as he looks back at me, and that immediately dissolves the hard edges of my anger. Dammit. He’s a veteran asshole, clearly. Which means I need to barrel on with my mission.
“Thanks for the recommendation, doc. Now, let’s get back to business.” I slide the folders toward him. “I’d like to go over these matches with you. And”—I hold up my hands, as if warding off a yeah but before he says it—“I know you’re busy. But even just a glance on your break or after work is all I’m asking for.”
“With the thousand other things people want me to glance at.”
“Now seems like a good time for your weekly reminder that you hired me.”
“But I have a high-pressure schedule to work around.”
“I’ve done nothing but work around it,” I say. His attempts at dominating this conversation won’t work. I’m not afraid of his hard edges and his Eau du Asshole. In fact, they only egg me on. “Every time I call in here, I ask Nancy if we can just not bother you all together, because I know you’re such a busy man.”
I might have laid it on a little too thick that time. His smile morphs into a glower. “And what do you do all day? Sleep until noon and predict who’s going to fall in love next?”
I deflate slightly. There it is. The asshole streak. I must have #triggered Dr. Dom.
“I haven’t slept until noon since college, but I’m not going to sit here and defend myself to someone who clearly just wants to be mean.”
He’s quiet, staring at me, clicking the top of a pen compulsively. I’m expecting an I’m sorry, but of course I don’t get one. Instead, he says, “Tonight.”
“What?”
“We’ll meet tonight.” His jaw flexes as he consults his laptop, clicking through something. “It’s probably the only chance I’ll have until next weekend. I’m on call all weekend, and honestly”—his tired gaze drags up to meet mine—“I need a fucking drink tonight.”
Electricity shivers through me. “Okay. Let’s get a fucking drink.”
The phone rings then, and his regular Dr. Dom mask slides into place: hard, a little pissed off, the actually-model-grade medical version of Derek Zoolander’s Blue Steel. He picks it up, grunts once, and then he looks at me.
“I need to take this call. I’ll text you the details.”
As I nod, my head feels loose, like it might bob right off my neck. He insulted my lifestyle, yet somehow I’m still at risk of drifting toward him instead of out of his office.
I try my best to exit gracefully, but I fumble with the doorknob, and something clicks. The handle won’t move. At all.
I try to turn the knob again, but it doesn’t budge. Alarms ring in my head—you’re not locked inside are you, London, did you lock the door, LONDON ARE YOU LOCKED INSIDE THE OFFICE? I flip the tiny lock and the handle is still immobile. A nervous laugh flut
ters out of me.
“Um,” I begin. This is mortifying. How does one lock themselves inside a doctor’s office? I try it again, flipping the lock again. Equally as immobile. Thank God I never followed my childhood dream of applying to be on that short-lived but epic game show, Legends of the Hidden Temple–I would have been humiliated on national television. Now I’m just a late twenty-something who gets trapped inside perfectly functional spaces.
I twist to look at Dom, and his curious gaze is sizzling over me. “I can’t get out.”
He covers the mouthpiece. “Just open it.”
This is the least helpful thing anyone has ever told me. “You don’t think I tried that?” I jiggle the handle to show him, just as my cheeks turn flame red. I’m supposed to be the epitome of grace. A living, breathing example of confidence and go-get-’em attitude.
Except, you know, when it comes to doors.
Dom tells whoever he’s on the phone with to hold, and gently sets the receiver down. He struts toward me, hands in his pockets, a curious smile on his face. When he reaches me, I’m bathed in his mind-bending mahogany musk. I need to save face here, but at this point, it’s impossible. I’ve given him all the ammo he needs to continue insulting my lifestyle and now probably my intelligence.
“You have a faulty door,” I inform him, crossing my arms. He reaches for the handle, his arm brushing my elbow. The mere touch is enough to send moisture to my panties. God forbid this man ever actually put his hands on me, because I might have a heart attack. And wouldn’t that just be ironic?
He turns the handle, and it unclicks a moment later. He opens the door a few inches, the smile on his face spreading wider.
“I think you have a faulty hand.” He’s towering over me, that gaze nearly slicing in me two. I can’t tell if I’m quivering or melting, but tectonic plates are definitely separating inside me. He doesn’t move away immediately either, which makes this worse. Way worse.
“I’ve never had issues with any door,” I say, lifting my chin, “except yours.”
“Hm.” His gaze washes over me, leaving aching pinpricks in its wake, and then he heads back to his desk. I scrape up whatever tiny pieces of my dignity are left and burst through the door.
“Door giving you troubles?” Nancy asks with a smirk as I hurry past.
“You need to call maintenance,” I tell her. “And make sure Dom doesn’t forget to put me on the schedule for tonight.”
The last thing I hear as I hightail it out of his office is Nancy saying “Oooh, dinner, huh!”. When the door thuds behind me and I’m in the hallway, the breath I’d been holding since setting foot in Dom’s office finally escapes in one, enormous whoosh.
If you could call that “holding it together,” then I am precariously close to losing my shit when it comes to Dom. And it’s only getting worse. Granted, Dom doesn’t know that when he brushed my elbow, I almost had to change underwear. But that is not the way a matchmaker is supposed to react to a client. And even though meeting him on his own turf was bad, seeing Dom loose in the wild—like at the gym, and God forbid, at tonight’s restaurant—is a special type of intolerable.
I need grounding. I need guidance. I need information. As soon as my ass hits the warm interior of my car, I’m calling Hazel.
“Perfect timing,” she says once she picks up. “I was just about to call you.”
I glance at the clock. I managed to snag her in her daily down-time window. “Guess we needed the long-distance girl talk. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing much. Why did you call?”
“Just wanted to gab.” Untrue. I want her to spill everything she knows about Dominic Daly, but I am contractually forbidden from acknowledging him. “A few days away from completing my first month in Cleveland. Can you believe it?”
“Oh my god,” she says, and I imagine her slapping her hand against her forehead. “And I still haven’t seen your place yet.”
“Girl, I wasn’t even unpacked beyond the bed-and-shower stage until last week.”
Hazel snorts. “But let me guess—your office was picture-perfect?”
“You know it.” I laugh. We’re both perfectionist workaholics, in the best way possible. At least, we like to think so. “My apartment is looking better, but my guest bed isn’t even set up. So if you and Gray come, you won’t have anywhere to sleep. Yet.”
“Oh, that’s okay. But we need to pick a date soon! And with enough time so I can just slip it into Gray’s schedule without any fuss.”
My heart starts thumping as I scramble for a natural segue between Grayson and Dom. So, speaking of Gray, why don’t you elaborate on his older brother we’ve talked about once in our entire lives? “Is he being fussy?”
“He’s just so busy with GrayWorks,” she says. “You know. New business. Growing pains. Licensing issues. Blah blah blah.”
“Well, he has plenty of help in the area.” I run my finger along the top of the steering wheel, daring myself to go there. “You, for starters. And his brothers, I mean…aren’t they helpful?”
Hazel snorts. “Which one, exactly?”
I make a display of thinking it over. “Ahh…jeez…I don’t know…what’s the…Dom? Doesn’t he do…something helpful? I heard he lives here in Cleveland.”
Hazel tuts, unaware that my heart is pounding like a jack rabbit. “The man might live an hour away from us, but he might as well be in India.”
Jackpot. “Why do you say that?”
“He’s just…absent. I don’t know. And when he comes around, he’s a dick.”
My stomach pitches to the floor. I want to say, FUNNY, he was just a dick to me too! But I bite my tongue. “I don’t remember much from high school. He was, what, four years ahead of us?”
“Yeah. He was a dick back then, too.” Hazel laughs a little. “You should see the way he and Gray fight. It’s fit for a reality TV show. It gets tense.”
My lips form a frown, and I pick at the seam of my steering wheel, feeling let down without understanding why. “Sounds like a jerk.”
“He provokes the shit out of Gray. But then again…Gray provokes the shit out of him. It’s a vicious cycle in this family. I honestly can’t even explain it. You’d have to see it to believe it.”
“Why are they like that?”
“Their dad.” Hazel’s flat tone tells me it starts and ends there. “I mean, Dom probably got the worst of it, so it’s not like you can blame him.”
“Weird,” I say, hoping Hazel can’t intuit the sweat forming on my brow as I try to sound casual and non-invested. “I don’t know anything about Dom. At all. Like…at all. It’s crazy how little I have ever interacted with that man.” Am I sounding casual yet? “Or any of them. I mean, of course, except Gray.”
“Well Dom is the biggest asshole of the family,” Hazel says.
I clear my throat, swallowing back the YEAH, TELL ME ABOUT IT. “But it can’t just be because of his dad.”
“Well, there was that girl.”
My shoulders prickle with heat as curiosity washes over me. Second jackpot. “What?”
“Gray mentioned it once when we were drunk,” Hazel says, her voice dropping to a gossipy whisper. “But he said that Dom used to be engaged. Dom was the only Daly brother that stood a chance of getting married, until some huge blowout happened years ago.”
“Oh my god.”
“He only mentioned it because we were talking about how funny it was that Gray was the first brother to settle down. Gray always thought he’d be the last. Or second to last, maybe.”
“So Dom was almost married?”
“Yeah, but the girl cheated on him, I think. I’m not sure. I don’t even know when it happened.”
Hazel’s insight, however limited, helps a lot of pieces click into place. There’s a reason for Dom’s romantic reticence. And it looks a lot like heartbreak. I just wonder why he hasn’t mentioned it. “So Gray won the title of first to settle down.”
“Yes, which he doesn’t hold back f
rom holding over his brothers’ heads. Especially Connor, since he came in second.”
I laugh. “Sure. But if those two have found love, which brother is next?”
It might sound like pointless speculation about people I shouldn’t care about, but the Daly brothers occupied more of my conversations during high school than I care to admit. They were the ubiquitous hot guys, the local standard for out-of-reach sexiness that everyone just wanted to know about, even if you never spoke to them. In some way or another, I have always been aware of the Daly brothers and their general goings-on. Blame it on small-town life, but it’s the way of things in Bayshore. There’s fewer than twenty thousand of us, so we tend to know what’s going on with everyone else while we live there.
Hazel and I chat a little bit more, and when it’s time to go I can’t resist cracking a joke. “So next time I call, we’ll cover a different Daly brother, right?”
“Sure,” she laughs. “How about Weston next time?”
“It’s a date.” I hang up the phone, something hot and uncomfortable pulsing in my veins. I squeeze my steering wheel, peering through my rearview mirror just to check that Dom isn’t somehow magically behind my car, staring me down with those icy baby blues.
If anything, my side-swiped probing into Dom’s personal life gave me exactly what I needed to know, even if I didn’t plan on finding it out.
The man pushes away his family. He doesn’t do anything beyond work. And though he was open to love once, he no longer is.
All of these details are, in my world, known by a different name.
Red flags.
And if I’m smart, I’ll nip this silly infatuation in the bud.
Before it really grows roots and starts to bloom.
Chapter 8
LONDON
Red flags or not, I’m not ignoring this chance to dress up. When Dom sent me the location for our business dinner tonight, I recognized the name immediately. One of the coziest and most elegant dining spots in all of Cleveland. I’ve only been there once before, and unfortunately it was linked to my ex, Carl, and a random business trip. I’m more than ready to wipe his memory from this place—and my brain altogether. He’s one of the only people who could make me choose the Eternal Sunshine procedure, hands down.