by Ember Leigh
I grin, tracing invisible patterns over the ridges of his abs. It feels like we’ve been doing this for years, even though it’s been less than weeks. “I could get away with a lot, then.”
“You have no idea.”
There’s something very serious behind our lighthearted conversation. Something that I consciously looked away from last night. Something that he forced me to dive headfirst into.
The fact that we are fucking falling for each other.
I thought it was just me, but it’s more than obvious he’s on this crazy train too. When our food order arrived last night, we ate in the nude on a bearskin rug in front of the crackling fireplace. Okay, I put some panties and one of his old college T-shirts on. But he was naked. And we were on a bearskin rug. And I’m not giving him back these clothes. Does it get much more romantic than that?
I’ll overlook the fact that he ordered two sides of potato salad and one giant roast beef sub. Because, well, I was giving him head when he ordered, so he can’t be held responsible for what showed up at the door.
“Have you always been this romantic?” I ask the question casually, but there is something deeper thrumming through me. He’s made me fall at his feet without even trying.
“What do you mean ‘romantic’?” He’s dragging his fingertips in a lazy pattern over my forearm.
“We ate potato salad on a bearskin rug last night,” I remind him.
He laughs. “That’s not romantic. That’s food delivery Russian roulette.”
I nuzzle deeper into his side, relishing the scent of him. The mahogany-tinged manliness has mingled pleasantly with sweat after all our activity last night. I could get lost in his scent forever and still want more. “But it is romantic. Just like when we went out the first time. You orchestrated that whole thing to get me to go out with you.”
“Some would call it slightly creepy.”
“Or what about the breakfast you made me two weeks ago? That was very romantic.”
“It’s what one does after waking up,” Dom insists.
I sigh, shaking my head. “What were you doing out there right now?”
“Making pancakes for you.”
“For me.” I can’t help the grin that covers my face.
“Yes. Because it’s what one does after waking up.” Now the grin has spread to his face, and we’re facing each other, foreheads pressed together like teenagers in love. In like. Because I don’t love this man. I’m just…experiencing chemical reactions inside my body. That’s all.
“You can’t help but be of service, can you?” I murmur, searching his clear blue gaze. It all makes sense now. He’s constantly serving. It’s his love language. He’d probably be making me a bookshelf or something if breakfast wasn’t the easiest and most practical option.
“I don’t see how this relates to being romantic. Which I’m not.”
“Okay. Then define romance. What would you do if you were trying to be romantic?”
His gaze shifts down and he’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know. Probably…get an expensive suite somewhere and line the jacuzzi with rose petals.”
“Hm. It’s romantic by default. But I’ll tell you what. The whole ‘surprise nights out’ and ‘pancakes for breakfast’ approach wins a lot more points.”
“Oh yeah?” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “So how many points do I have now?”
“Too many.”
The satisfied smirk that stretches across his face makes me equally upset and head over heels him. “How many more do I need to convince you to make yourself my number one match?”
The question thuds through me, burning hot and chaotic. I’m so stunned, I can barely speak. Of course I’ve entertained this idea. Of course I’ve already imagined what it might be like to date Dom. But the fact that he’s also seriously entertaining it feels like even more of a failure.
Because not only have I led him to believe he might have a chance with me, I’ve failed in setting him up with someone else who would claim his attention.
“Dom,” I start.
“I’m serious.” His rough palm swirls over my low back.
“But you’re looking for a wife. You’re trying to get married.”
He doesn’t look fazed. “So why not to you?”
The response makes me weirdly sick to my stomach. I shake my head, rolling onto my back so I can use the unmarred white ceiling as my anchor. “That’s not how I want to do things, Dom. I know you’re looking for a wife of convenience, and I’m trying to facilitate that. But I’m not going to be somebody else’s wife of convenience. I deserve more than that.”
He props himself up onto an elbow, looking down at me with something tender written across his face. “You do. And I’m not asking you to do that. I just think that…we have something. Don’t you?”
“Yes. And we absolutely shouldn’t.” I sit up suddenly, my chest feeling tight. This cuddle fest took an unexpected turn.
“Well it’s there, regardless,” he says, reaching for my wrist. He swipes his thumb back and forth over my pulse. “Whether you like it or not.”
A humorless laugh escapes me, and I twist to look back at him. “Yeah. What do you think we should do about it?”
“I want to be with you,” Dom says. There’s no hesitation in his voice. Not an inkling of a waver or anything. He’s boring into my soul with his crystalline blue eyes, and it’s taking every ounce of me to stay strong. To remember why being with him is a bad idea.
“But you want to be married by next month so you can get the position with the foundation. There’s no way for us to advance, with that in the mix.”
He’s quiet for a moment, but his gaze never wavers from me. “We can figure something out.”
“What? What on earth could it be?” He doesn’t answer right away, so I continue. “Maybe we can write into the marriage vows that you’ll be a doting fake husband to Julianne while maintaining your side bitch. That the legal marriage will always entail one additional girlfriend. It’s all so modern and progressive. Because if the marriage of convenience thing isn’t going to snag a lady, the matchmaker girlfriend on top of it will surely seal the deal.”
He’s frowning now. “Funny.”
“No. It’s not funny. It’s needlessly complicated.” I sigh heavily, my gaze wandering to the delicious lines of his abs again. “If you want to be with me, there’s only one direct route that I can see. And it looks like getting rid of the obstacle that you brought to my doorstep.”
His frown deepens. “I’m so close to the position I can taste it. I can’t back out now.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m just telling you one possible solution. Maybe the only solution.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Well it’s a non-option. They’re going to offer me the position. I know it. And not only will I have job security for the rest of my life, I’ll be making history. How can I walk away from that?”
I shrug. “You’re not supposed to. You know what you want. And it’s the prestige.”
His eyes narrow. “It’s more than prestige.”
“You’re right. It’s prestige and a loveless marriage and the perfect cardiological façade.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far. Dom’s gaze drags razor-sharp over me, and I can tell I’ve activated something inside him.
“It’s not a façade. It’s my fucking end goal.”
“An organization that you yourself called a prestigious bunch of status whores.”
He scoffs. “What non-profit isn’t that way? It’s called playing the game. I don’t make the rules, but I know where I want to end up, and I know how to get there.”
“And I respect that. But your game will lead you and me in opposite directions. It’s just a fact. Because I’m not going to sacrifice what I deserve just because you need to have a wife by next Tuesday.”
“Noted. And now we know what happens when the world’s two most stubborn people try to make som
ething work,” he mutters, pushing to standing.
“There are plenty of other fish in the sea,” I say, even though it feels like a big lie. I’m sure I’ll be repeating it to myself for the next few months. Even though Dom is the only bull shark I want.
“There’s that romance you’re looking for.” The sarcasm is dripping from his tongue. “You know, I was going to say that you didn’t even tell me if you wanted to be with me too. But I realize you made it more than clear.”
He stalks out of the bedroom, leaving me in a tense, amply lit silence. Everything inside me feels misplaced and odd. Even though we’re at a dead end, I don’t want to leave things like this between us. I roll out of bed and use his bathroom to wash my face and get ready for the day. I slowly redress in yesterday’s clothes, and the smell of pancakes fills the air.
When I walk into the kitchen, Dom is preparing breakfast with a scowl. He’s made up two plates, which dissolves the hard edge of the lingering tension.
“Just so you know,” I begin, sliding onto a stool at the kitchen island, “I do want to be with you. A lot. Like, way more than I want to ever admit to another human being. Okay? For being the most arrogant, work-obsessed, anti-social, basically-estranged, non-family man I’ve ever met—”
“Are those all my flaws?” he asks.
“Yes. And despite them, I still want to be with you. But you and I both know that we’ve come to a dead end here.”
“Marry me,” he says, so tenderly that for a split second, I actually consider it. “That way, we can both have everything we want. You and I can be together. It’s just a piece of paper, London. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ll get the position, and we can keep dating.”
My throat tightens, tears threatening at my composure. Jesus, he really is the least romantic man on the planet. This is not at all how I envisioned my proposal story unfolding: in a desperate race against the non-profit clock. True love forged from a deadline.
No thanks.
“We’ve had sex twice and you want to get married.”
“We’ve had sex way more than twice, and yes, I knew after the first time that you were it for me.”
I pinch my eyes shut. It’s hard to stay grounded when he peppers in little details like that. Because I feel the same way about him.
“So, we just date while married until we realize six months from now that we were wrong about each other? Usually when people stop dating, they don’t need to hire a lawyer. But in our case, it would mean getting a divorce.”
“Who cares? I have the money to pay for it.” He’s pushing tiny pancakes onto two plates. Maple syrup is already on the island, and he fills the rest of the plates up with scrambled eggs. “If it comes to that.”
The food looks and smells amazing, but it does nothing to sweeten the pot. I pour an overly generous amount of syrup on my pancakes as I mull over my response. His idea makes a snakelike anxiety slither through me. And for some reason, it all just seems like a slap in the face to the vow I made my dead sister.
“Go live life to the fullest,” doesn’t start with a sham marriage.
Or does it?
“Just think about it,” he urges.
I’m ready to tell him no, but when I catch the sincerity slashed across his face—the raw edges of his feelings for me—I can’t find the words.
Instead, I swallow the knot in my throat and nod.
Chapter 22
LONDON
Dom and I wrap up our weirdly non-romantic morning together—a couple’s fight, followed by a sham wedding proposal, rounded off with his grandmother’s recipe for cinnamon pancakes. His idea sits inside me like a questionably fresh sushi roll. Will I be ill in an hour, or will it turn out that the eel roll was actually fine?
I need a second opinion. Hazel’s, to be specific.
Not having signed the NDA would be great, but I’m stuck in that no matter which way I turn. This just means I need to be extremely dodgy while laying out all the specifics of an intimate relationship. No big deal. I’m sure Hazel will have no problem with this scenario.
I wait until I’m back home in the golden warmth of my apartment, nestled into my favorite armchair with a furry blanket draped over my lap. Hugging a steaming mug of coffee, I call Hazel on speakerphone. When she picks up, I dive right in.
“I’m about to tell you something that might sound a little crazy, but I need you to hear me out.” Like I’m fucking your boyfriend’s brother, and he wants to make me your future sister-in-law.
“Okay,” she says slowly.
“I need romantic advice.”
She snorts. “Is that the crazy part?”
“No, it’s just—” I falter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Here goes. I started seeing a client.”
“Oh, wow. You’re seeing someone? And a client?”
“Like I said, just hear me out. I tried like hell to avoid it, but this man…” A sigh escapes me.
“Who is it?”
I roll my lips inward. You already know him. “I can’t say. For legal reasons.”
“Oh my GOD, are you dating one of the Cleveland Cavaliers?”
I snicker. “No. But that doesn’t sound like a bad idea. It’s just…the professional side makes things weird. And we’re in the middle of our contract. So I can’t say a damn word about who he is.”
She heaves an annoyed sigh. “How am I supposed to give you advice if I don’t know who it is?”
“You wouldn’t know him anyway.” White lies never hurt anyone, right? “It’s just part of our contract.”
“Can I at least get a physical description?”
I smirk. “Tall, dark, and handsome.”
“The most cliché description of all time. Fine. Go on.”
I run through the brief history of our meetups, and the fact that he needs to get married for unspecified, urgent reasons. When I tell her that Mr. TallDarkHandsome wants to marry me instead of one of his matches, Hazel gasps.
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t. And especially not when there are many other routes we can take to being together. None of which he considers an option, of course.”
“Hm. Well, while I wouldn’t mind a quick Vegas wedding getaway to be your witness, I see your point.”
“He’s dragging me into his complications. Life is too short to do something you don’t want to. I should be 1000% on this. Not 85%.”
“But you think you could be serious about him?”
“Yeah. Probably. I mean, I’m falling fast for him, Hazel. I’m not gonna lie. I just don’t think it’s fair that my only option to continue seeing him is to marry him or…nothing.”
“You’re right. And you know what? If he feels so strongly about you, he should be moving mountains for you. It sounds like he’s got his priorities elsewhere. It would be convenient if you fell in line and allowed him to have his cake and eat it too. But that’s not what you’re looking for, babe.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching a tear out. I don’t know why it hurts so good to hear that. Maybe because I needed to hear my best friend’s wisdom to remind me that I’m not insane for not offering up my ring finger when Dom says, “Marry me.”
We chat for a little bit longer, the conversation drifting to a sip-and-paint that we have planned for an upcoming Cleveland outing, and then we hang up the phone. Resolution is burbling inside of me. I’m going to let Dom know I made up my mind. That the ball is officially in his court, but I cannot become Mrs. Daly. Not now. Not under these circumstances.
My fingers are shaking as I write the text. I don’t know why, but it feels like we’ve been dating for years. Like I’m walking away from something huge. Like maybe I really am dumb for rejecting his offer of marriage as a temporary solution. Maybe it would give us everything we wanted.
Willow, what would you do?
I can see my little sister in my mind’s eye, the same as the week before she passed. Long, blonde, flowing hair, her dimpled grin both innoce
nt and mischievous. I can imagine her urging me to marry him for the shock value of it, just so she could be the flower girl.
I hear the whole conversation in my head—Willow suggesting I divorce him a week later, only to find a new urgent husband, followed by another divorce, followed by another husband. But then I imagine Willow’s face going serious. Her reaching out to touch my shoulder. Saying, “You don’t want to have that many weddings, though, do you, sis? You should just do it once. To the guy you love like crazy. The one who’s gonna last forever. The way you’ve been imagining it since forever.”
Tears are pooling in my eyes as I type out the text. It shouldn’t be this serious. But for some reason, with Dominic Daly, it is.
LONDON: Dom, I can’t marry you.
LONDON: I know it’s not what you want to hear. I hope you believe me that I want to be with you. Just not enough to sacrifice my sacred vision of what my future marriage will be. I deserve a chance at that, at least. Maybe you don’t get it. I know it’s just a piece of paper to you. But I have higher hopes for the love of my life.
I check my phone every ten seconds after those texts, waiting for a response. For an emoji. For fucking anything.
In the back of my head, I’m praying that Dom will find a different solution for us to explore this crazy connection between us. One that looks a lot like allowing things to take a natural course. Without constraints or timelines or faking a marriage for a board of physicians.
When Dom doesn’t answer that evening, I’m not surprised.
When he doesn’t answer the following day, I begin to understand.
And when Monday rolls around and he still hasn’t written back, I realize he’s made his decision.
Chapter 23
DOM
It’s nine a.m. in Chicago the following Friday. My plane landed at ten o’clock last night, and even though I only packed a carry-on, I brought enough anxiety to fill at least three checked bags.
It’s the day of the final interview with the Physicians Guild. I’m 100% certain they’re going to offer me the position, until five minutes passes and I’m feeling 100% certain that this was a massive waste of my precious time.