by Ember Leigh
I reach for my thermos of coffee at my desk and take a sip. It’s damn near empty, and shockingly cold, which means I’m nearing the end of my workday. The clock surprises me: it’s already five p.m. And this has been the way of things recently. Time escapes me because I get so involved in work. Two new clients signed on this week: one strictly matchmaking, the other a flagging graphic artist who needs a brand makeover.
And thank God they came when they did. I need the distraction. All of the dates that Dominic has been going on are eating away at me. And yes, I know, I’m the matchmaker who set them up for him. But I can’t bear imagining how sparkling the connection must have been with Julianne, or how turned on he was when he met Riley and her amazing booty, or whether or not he and Geri joked about whether their future kids would have his black hair or her blonde tresses.
His text reviews of each date show promise for a love connection, even though he himself claims to not want one. I’m so sure of my subversive tactics, I’m willing to bet that he’s already halfway falling in love with one of them.
I need more time away from him—that’s all. More time, and I need to reactivate my Blaze profile. Because while I can be counted on for matching others successfully, I’m the last to benefit from my own services—cobbler’s kid, after all.
My phone rings, and I swipe to answer without really registering the number. Thoughts about Dom have superseded all else, even my never-ending quest to avoid spam calls. And then a too-familiar bass rumbles through the line.
“London, please don’t hang up.”
I’ve permanently filed this voice in my ‘Should Not Hear Again’ list of human voices, and I jerk the phone away from my ear to double check the caller ID. It’s Carl. Even though I deleted his number six months ago, it’s 100% Fucking Carl.
“Why are you calling?”
“I miss you.”
Carl was a mistake—I practically knew it from the beginning—but knowing about mistakes doesn’t prevent one from making them. No, sometimes seeing a red flag just means you charge full steam ahead. Like the bullfights of Spain, Carl waved a whole quilt made of red flags, and I was helpless to resist. The only thing that allowed me to save my life from his metaphorical bullfighter antics was the fact that he sold—and whored—me out.
And I will never forgive him for that.
“Fuck you.”
“London, please hear me out.”
“I have no reason or desire to,” I spit, and then I hang up. My heart is pounding, and it takes me a few moments to synthesize what just happened. Carl called me? Yes. Carl wants me back? Seemingly yes. Carl is ignorantly unaware of how baffling and disgusting this change of heart appears to be? Definitely yes.
The more I think about it, the more outrageous this becomes. If he were ever going to be considered a decent boyfriend or mildly engaged lover, then he would have never suggested I “take one for the team” and sleep with our largest client to retain his account. That was the last line he should have crossed, but sadly, he crossed a whole highway of lines beforehand that I overlooked or made excuses for.
Worse yet, once I blew the whistle on his unapologetically awful offer, he had the gall to blacklist me within the company and within the community at large. Gossip, whore, liar. All attached to my image in Columbus now. And if that isn’t professional homicide, I don’t know what is.
He can rot in Columbus without me.
It takes me a while to calm down from the unexpected call. I imagine fifty-five different things I should have said, but I must find solace in the fact that my “fuck you” was flawless. Biting, angry, and concise. I hope it rings through his head so shrill and loud that it shatters all the mirrors in his house.
I wrap up work for the day later than normal due to the unexpected derailment, and at six-thirty I’m just finishing running through my inbox. Once I lock up down here, I’ll slink upstairs to my apartment, change into comfy pants, and lie on my couch until further notice, like all successful late twenty-somethings in the city.
Really, I’m itching to grab a drink after that unwelcomed intrusion from the past, but I’m not sure who I would call to invite out. Hazel is the only one who would get it, and this isn’t enough of an emergency to ask her to drive a full hour.
The bells on my front door jingle suddenly, and I snap my gaze toward the door.
I gasp without meaning to when I see who has stepped inside my office. The Perfect 10 Asshole himself.
“Dom?” I ask, my mouth flapping as I struggle to form a second part to my question. All I can think is, You’re not supposed to be here. We must carefully arrange when and where we see each other or else I will unravel.
Clearly, he doesn’t feel the same dangerous desire thrumming through him, because he is fine with showing up unannounced. He can handle it. Because he’s a normal person who isn’t fending off these thoughts like a tourist getting swarmed by hungry goats at the petting zoo.
“Correct.” He’s got on a long, sophisticated coat, the type that men wear to the horse races or to 1930’s-themed outings. Paired with his sharp jawline and the mahogany waves on top of his head, I’m a goner. The start of a shit-eating grin is on his face, and for a moment I wonder if I’ve overlooked something that we had previously set up.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a date?” My voice comes out squeakier than normal. Hopefully he doesn’t realize it’s related to the sudden moisture in my panties.
“She cancelled.” He takes slow, purposeful steps toward my desk, and I white-knuckle my mouse, half tempted to roll up a nearby magazine and ward him off, the way one might scold an encroaching dog. Don’t step any closer or else I’ll jump your bones!
“Did you stop by to complain?”
A heartbreaking smile crosses his face, and for a moment, hesitation flashes across his face. “No. I thought we could go out instead.”
It takes me almost a full minute for his meaning to penetrate the thick fog of desire. He can’t mean go out. There must be some other meaning attached to this phrase that I’m forgetting due to the temporary ovary insanity.
“Like…”
“Like I’ll take you out on the date instead.”
Heat zips through me, and I’m fairly sure my entire body turns the color of a refrigerated hot dog. “I, uh…” I begin clicking through screens on my computer, though I’m not seeing a damn thing that I’m doing. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t date clients,” I blurt, crossing my arms tightly across my chest before I do anything stupid on my computer, like delete the entire next week’s schedule.
“Fine. Let’s just grab a drink.”
I draw a shaky breath, searching for any other excuse in my arsenal as to why I shouldn’t do this. I’m not prepared. I didn’t rehearse my lines in the mirror. My brain has short circuited. “I don’t think—”
“Let’s go over other matches and call it a work meeting.” He seems unfazed by my resistance, jerking his head toward the door. “I blocked out this time on a Friday evening, and I don’t want to go home. Maybe you could humor an overworked doctor?”
All the air in me goes out in one final hiss. I deflate into my chair and reach for my phone. He’s talked me into it. It’s not my fault. Besides, he’s right—this won’t be personal. It’s for work. Maybe this will soothe the professional taskmaster inside my soul. And god, I’m ready for the distraction after that unwelcome intrusion from Carl.
“Well, I guess that sounds all right,” I say in a quiet voice, pushing onto wobbly knees. I fumble with my phone, unsure what I’m supposed to do now. Do I just walk out the door with him? Go upstairs and change into sexier underwear? What about brushing my teeth in case we tongue kiss?
“Fair warning, though—I want a burger and loud music,” he warns.
The last remnants of my resistance dissolve. It sounds like the perfect way to end this day. Even better than lying on my couch in comfy clothes and stewing ov
er all the other things I could have said to Carl. “I think I can handle that.”
“Good. You ready to go now or do you need some time? I can wait.”
The idea of Dom hanging around in my office, watching me, waiting for me, sends anxiety snaking through me. The sooner we can get into the open air, the better. Then the intensity of his gaze won’t feel so commanding.
“No, no, Dom, let me just drop everything the second you show up and do your bidding,” I say, heading for the spindly coat rack near my desk. I slide my favorite black leather jacket on, moving my hair to one side. “After all, that’s what you pay me for, right? To open my mouth when you say ‘drink’?”
“I thought it was part of the VIP package,” he returns, tipping his head to one side. His gaze makes a slow trek up and down my body, and every inch of me goes hot and prickly under his attention.
“I can feel you clinically assessing me again,” I blurt, trying to make it lighthearted when it is so, so serious.
“I was just noticing your shoes,” he said, his gaze stuck at my feet. I’m wearing blue suede heels today. Impractical, especially in a rainstorm. Also leaves a lot of doors open for Elvis jokes. But luckily it’s a dry October evening, and apparently, Dom’s not an Elvis fan. “They’re very blue.”
“Good observation, Doctor.” I grab my purse, slinging it over my shoulder. As we head toward the door, I turn off lights and the Himalayan salt lamp I set up next to one of the smaller vases on my feature wall. “Anything else you’ve noticed that you’d like to share?”
A curious smile tugs at his lips as I lead the way out of the office and onto the sidewalk. He’s not saying something. I can feel it. The crisp, loamy air fills my senses, a sudden breeze moving my hair. The lock clicks into place and finally I can’t bear the heavy silence between us.
“Something you want to say?” I ask, tucking the key in my purse.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“No, but you wanted to.”
We start walking south, into the heart of the Larchmere neighborhood where all the best burger joints and bars are buried. He glances down at me, then squints out at the horizon.
“Not all observations are meant to be shared.”
“Oh, please.”
“Maybe once I have a few drinks in me.”
Excitement tingles inside me. “So this is something for my patient folder then?”
He wets his bottom lip, and I almost eat pavement. He’s not allowed to look this sexy while I’m perched on a metal spike. “Exactly.”
I shove my hands in my pockets and ball my fists. What are the chances that I can cast aside my professional boundaries for the evening? Is there any way I can hit on this man in good conscience? I swear he was flirting with me the last time we were out, but it didn’t last long, and let’s be real—the man is probably a born flirt. With eyes that color, he could deliver news about my uncle’s heart attack and I might still wonder if he was coming on to me. Just because that’s how bad I want it.
We stroll down the sidewalk, and I pause once to fire off my last work-related message of the evening: a check-in text to Tara that says, “Sorry to hear you had to reschedule! Let me know what works for you next week!”. Workday: officially over. Except I have no idea what to label this next portion of my evening. A much-needed fun night out? Professional suicide? Time will tell.
As we walk, we contemplate different burger joints. I haven’t been to most places and neither has he, so we make a mutual decision to try something outside of our comfort zones. That’s how we settle on Zimbo’s.
It’s the love child of a dive bar and a gourmet restaurant. The plates we see coming out of the kitchen are Instagram-ready and elaborately arranged, yet the tables wobble and the chairs look like they haven’t been replaced since the eighties. We settle into a little two-top in the back corner, by an antique jukebox with plenty of bizarre and kitschy things hanging on the wall: a doll’s head, a sign telling us to “Eat, Tip, and Get Out,” and seventies-style renditions of downtown Cleveland. When the menus arrive, Dom leans forward with a mischievous glint.
“I’ll order for you if you order for me.”
“I can’t trust you. You’re a doctor. You’ll get me a salad.”
He laughs, a dimple flashing. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I know you’re not the salad type.”
I tip my head. “Are you trying to say something, doctor?”
“What would I be trying to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I look to you like a girl who could stand to eat a few more salads.”
He wets his bottom lip again, and the intensity of his gaze makes my throat dry. “My professional opinion is that you should continue whatever regimen you’re currently on.”
Satisfaction prickles through me. I can’t stop poking at him. It’s the only way I can feed this hunger inside me while staying within professional boundaries. “Good.”
“My personal opinion is quite different,” he adds, just as the server slides up with an overly-friendly introduction and list of beers. I’m stuck staring at Dom though, who just sends me an evil smile. He is withholding so many things from me. I can’t stand it.
And he knows it.
When the server asks us if we’re ready to order, Dom emphatically agrees.
“She’ll be having the Zimbo burger,” he says, jerking his chin at me. “With whatever your hoppiest IPA is.”
My mouth parts. It sounds delicious, but it’s way heavier than what I’d normally order.
“He’ll take the Deluxe Zimbo Pile Burger.” I hand my menu over to the server. That burger was the tallest thing I’d ever seen, with maybe three entire patties on it. “And a margarita.”
When the server leaves with our menus, I send him a haughty look.
“Not heart healthy tonight,” I tell him.
“It’s okay. I’m due for my cardiac arrest risk to increase.”
“Do you like tequila?”
“It doesn’t matter—you already ordered the margarita.” He leans back in his seat, his biceps straining the light gray sleeves of his button-up. His horse race coat is slung over the back of the chair beside him. But somehow, the sexiest part of what’s in front of me is that quiet submission. Handing me the reins of his experience. That trust in my decision, even if it’s just over dinner and drinks. Like the other night, when he wordlessly carried my coat for me. Jesus, to my parched and starving heart, it might as well have been a marriage proposal.
“Oh, I forgot something.” His long, knobby fingers find the top buttons of his shirt. He undoes the first two, watching me with mischief written across his face.
And that’s when it hits me. All the pieces click into place.
Dr. Dom has his sights set on me tonight.
And IPA help me, I won’t be able to resist much longer.
Chapter 12
DOM
We manage to put away an impressive amount of hamburger that evening. It’s a sloppy, delicious, giggle-filled dinner. Each time London’s tomato slides off her sandwich, it sets her off. And god damn, I could watch this woman giggle for the rest of my life.
I’ve never been able to have barbecue sauce smeared all over my mouth while feeling like the woman in front of me actually enjoyed the BBQ smear. Not until tonight. Her eyes sparkle every time I take a bite of my burger, and by the time the server takes away our plates, my belly is full and my heart is fuller.
This is the feeling that pushed me to orchestrate tonight’s outing. It’s because this woman possesses something special that brings so many parts of me back to life. I don’t think about work once during dinner—not even when we tease about clinical assessments. She is like warm silk on my cheek, a breath of fresh air after holding it in for years.
And after dinner, I’m not ready to let this evening end.
“I’m paying,” I announce when the server returns with our bill. I pass her a one hundred-dollar bill before London can even protest. “I invited you, remember
?”
“Tara is gonna be upset she missed this,” London muses. Tara, the third woman of the six that are on my match portfolio. Tara, the woman I have zero interest in meeting.
“She’ll survive. Now what do you say we find some shitty bar with dollar draft specials?”
Her grin spreads ear to ear. “I’m in the mood for that. But it needs to be bottom of the barrel beer.”
“Right. Total machine piss.”
“This meal was so good, we really need to balance things out,” she says.
“Yes. Preferably our hangover will begin while still at the bar.”
She snort-laughs just as the server returns with my change. I leave everything on the table for her as tip, plus an additional twenty-dollar bill, and we stand to put on our coats. Outside, the evening has gone dark and cold. London hugs herself, teeth immediately chattering.
“You okay to walk?” I sling my arm around her shoulders without even thinking. It’s an impulse I couldn’t resist. “You look cold.”
“I think I can make it,” she says.
“I can get the car if you want.”
“No, I’m not that much of a wuss.” She nudges me as we fall into an easy pace. I keep her nestled into my side. I don’t want to let her go, and when we choose a bar a couple blocks later, I’m disappointed. I’d carry her in my arms for another mile if it meant I got to hold her against me. My entire body is taut with anticipation. Waiting for the next window of opportunity to get a first-hand whiff of that floral nectar she wears.
My gaze drops to her impossibly sexy blue suede heels as we approach the door. Music is already leaking out, fast-paced rock music, and she tosses an easygoing smile over her shoulder as we step inside.
The place is packed and humid, with lots of groups standing around and couples cluttering the high tables interspersed around the place. The band is tucked into the back of the bar, a three-piece ensemble—electric guitar, drums, and keyboard—of twenty-somethings with long hair and questionable gender identities.
