Make Me Yours (Bayshore Book 3)

by Ember Leigh

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gray asserts, “It was for London’s honor. He’ll gladly accept a jail sentence.”

  I can’t even think, much less formulate a response, with all this news circulating in my brain. The man who claimed I would be a stain on his perfect doctor record for the foundation now is getting charged with assault? “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Changes are afoot,” Gray says wistfully. “My brother is a good man.”

  I press a hand to my forehead. Maybe this is a fever dream. “I’m sorry, what? I thought you two hated each other.”

  “We’re brothers,” Grayson says. “We have our issues; then we figure them out. It’s whatever.”

  I look around my room, trying to locate some evidence that I woke up in an alternate universe. There has to be something. I need a talisman, like in Inception. Just one look at it, and I’d know I was still dreaming. I’ve had thirty years to get my reality grips in place, but there’s nothing.

  “I need to fall asleep and wake up again so things start making more sense,” I say slowly.

  Hazel takes the phone off speaker and pries for information. Despite feeling exhausted, I give her the executive summary of what Dom said to me at the hotel room.

  “I can’t tell you what to decide, babe,” she says softly. “And I hate that he said those things to you. But I’ll say one thing—I’ve never seen Dom like the man who showed up at my house last night.”

  It doesn’t matter. Even though Hazel’s words haunt me for the rest of the day, none of it matters. Because I’m decided on the issue. Dom is an incorrigible asshole who does not deserve my time, space, or love. I will eventually fall out of love with him—I just might need to hang his hurtful words on poster board around my apartment to remind myself how much of an asshole he is.

  Hazel takes me out for coffee later, and then on Sunday we grab lunch before I drive back to Cleveland. Monday is business as usual, even though I swear my cheeks are still residually puffy from all the tears I spilled Friday through Sunday.

  Luckily, my client load is big enough to distract me, at least until five p.m. But Monday evening is when the first piece of mail rolls in. It’s a postcard of the rooftop restaurant where Dom and I first met. On the back, in a doctor’s scrawl, it reads, “This is where I fell for you. You were smiling into the sun, and I knew I was in trouble.”

  Tears immediately creep to my eyes, and I toss the postcard in the trash. It stays there overnight. On Tuesday morning, I quietly rescue it and put it into the back of my bottom desk drawer.

  On Wednesday, another postcard. This time, it’s a picture of Cleveland nightlife. Zimbo’s is in the background. On the back, Dom has written, “I would die a happy man if I could ever take you to Zimbo’s again.”

  By Friday, with three postcards tucked into my bottom drawer, I get an email from Nancy at Dom’s office. She is unable to contain the full extent of her bewilderment.

  London:

  I don’t entirely understand what’s going on anymore, but I feel confident that somebody around here has an idea, even if it’s only God himself. And no, I’m not talking about Dr. Daly.

  I’m hoping Dr. Daly has given you the heads up, but in case he hasn’t, he’s asked me to contact you strictly via email to inform you that your contract with him has ended, effective immediately.

  What I don’t understand is why he pulled out of the board position. He got his confirmation letter Monday, but who am I but his lowly servant?

  He’s been uncharacteristically happy, too. We went out to lunch this week, just him and me! Can you believe it? He ordered a cheeseburger with sparkling water.

  The weirdest part of it all is that Dr. Daly showed up from vacation with a broken hand, which means that he can’t perform surgeries for the next two months. Not sure if that’s relevant, but while we’re talking about all the strange developments, I thought you might like to know.

  I’m so sad this means we won’t be seeing each other anymore. Can we please plan a girls’ night here and there?

  Best,

  Nance

  I reread the email enough times that I break into tears over my keyboard. I don’t know what makes me happier—the fact that Dom pulled out of the board or that Nancy wants to have a girls’ night. Probably the Dom thing. Maybe.

  Even though I should still hate him for how horribly he treated me, he is slowly mending our fence. Even from afar, with his number and email blocked on all possible devices. He doesn’t quite deserve an award, but he deserves a mention.

  I see him. I notice. But it doesn’t mean all is well.

  My heart might pine for his shy breakfast smiles and his impossibly dirty mouth, but my head is finally prevailing for once. I shouldn’t—and I won’t—forget the fact that once again, another man didn’t believe me. He might have beaten Carl up—which, yes, let’s be real, that’s amazing—but it doesn’t negate the fact that Dom was so ready and willing to lap up any sordid story about me.

  He was a 258-point asshole before Thanksgiving weekend, but he managed to snag the highest-scoring entry of the entire scorecard. The entry that wasn’t even on there. Blindly listen to made-up stories and question the content of London’s character: 1,000,000 points.

  How can I ever trust him again?

  I try to cling to this train of thought as the days while on. One week goes by without Dom, and then another. It’s almost mid-December by the time I realize I’ve amassed fifteen postcards from this man. One of the postcards simply says, “I was afraid to love again after my ex cheated on me. I should have told you sooner. I never imagined that you would be the one to heal me.”

  Oh, and I can’t forget the small vase with a note that says, “I bought this for you in Chicago.”

  Will this continue forever? At least Carl’s emails have stopped. Their Black Friday brawl was good for one thing, I suppose. Though trading emails for postcards makes me worry what might be next in the pipeline: smoke signals from my next lover after a fallout?

  I’ve gone back to fantasizing about Dom, sometimes touching myself nightly, just wishing I could have one last night with his solid heat at my side.

  In the middle of week three post-Dom, I get a call from Hazel. We talk about holiday plans, and she encourages me to come to Bayshore for the weekend.

  “I guess I could,” I say, looking out my office window at the snow-covered Larchmere sidewalks. “If we don’t get that snowstorm they’re predicting.”

  “Leave early on Friday if you can,” she says. “Please, Hazel, you need to come to this party! There’s a soft opening downtown, and you know how much we loooove fancy openings!”

  I sigh, darkening the square I’ve been drawing obsessively on a post-it note during our call. “You’re right. It would be nice to get out again. I’ve been sorta cooped up.”

  “See? Exactly. Just re-arrange your schedule a little and head over to Bayshore after lunch on Friday. You can even stay with me, and we’ll go together on Friday night.”

  Once our plan is set, I work on conjuring excitement for the outing. Part of me is disappointed that I won’t run into Dom in the magical way it happened the night before Thanksgiving, but I quickly rebuke that side of me. I should be grateful I won’t run into Dom.

  But the truth is, I’m pining for him. Between Nancy’s email and Grayson’s suddenly-glowing review, it’s hard not to notice there are some real changes happening. I’m curious. I make it a plan to pry for information once Hazel and I are alone together.

  Friday comes, and Hazel and I are drinking the first glass of chardonnay by five p.m. Grayson is getting ready too, and with how dressed up they are, I’m glad I brought my A-game.

  At one point during our makeup session at Hazel’s vanity, Gray pops his head in and says, “Hey, something came up so I…” He glances at me briefly. “Gotta go take care of it.”

  “Sure,” Hazel says.

  “You’ll take Mav?” he asks her.

  “Oh, the whole family is g
oing?” I murmur as I press a bobby pin into the side of my head.

  “Mm-hmm,” Hazel says, finishing the front curl of her updo. Gray gives her a kiss on the forehead before he hurries out of the house. Odd, though, that all of the Dalys are coming.

  “Why the big family affair?” I ask, reaching for my blush.

  Hazel laughs, maybe nervously. “Family friend, I guess. I don’t know, I didn’t ask too many questions. I’m just going for the cheese tray.”

  “And wine,” I add.

  “And photo ops,” she says with a laugh.

  “And the chance to wear our amazing dresses.” I brush on a little blush and then sit back, admiring my makeup. “Can’t ever forget that.”

  “I wish Connor and Kinsley were here,” Hazel says, on the verge of gushing.

  “Why?”

  “I think it’d be fun to hang out with Kinsley more.” She shrugs. “Wouldn’t you like to get to know her better?”

  “I guess,” I say slowly, but in my head I’m thinking it sounds a lot like she wants us to form a trio of Daly significant others. Which, maybe in an alternate reality. But not this one. “There’s a lot of people I’d like to get to know better though.”

  Once we finish our hair and makeup, we’re ready to go. Hazel drives. Our first stop is the Daly household four doors down, where Maverick is waiting outside, bundled up in a puffy black coat. He slides into the backseat, smelling like weed and cologne.

  “Why didn’t you go with your mom and dad?” Hazel asks.

  “Fuck my dad,” Maverick mumbles, immediately staring out the window. It’s quiet for a minute, and then Maverick finally seems to notice us. “You both look nice.”

  “Thanks, we try,” I remark wryly. “Where’s Weston?”

  “He’s there already,” he says, and then sinks back into his own world.

  Hazel drives us to the eastern edge of downtown. She pulls into the street parking of the backside of a building I’ve never noticed before and definitely never visited.

  “We’ll go in the back,” she says, and leads the way up a rickety staircase to a door labeled 331 E. Water Street. I’m not sure why she’s so intimately familiar with this event and its inner workings, but I’m just eager to get out of the biting December wind and into a warm place with wine.

  We’re welcomed into an empty back office of sorts with a stunning view of the lake. The space looks half-finished, at best, and Hazel sweeps toward a doorway heading to a brightly lit room. Conversation and jazz music drift our way.

  We step into the main room, and everything hits me all at once. Everyone turns to me like it’s my surprise birthday party, the air pulled taut with all the waiting gasps, but instead of everyone saying SURPRISE! and throwing penis-shaped confetti (is that only at my birthday parties?), Dom steps into view.

  He’s wearing a perfectly pressed black dress shirt with black pants and black shoes. His hair is longer, a little unruly, and he’s tamed it in a way that looks almost retro. The sight of him steals my breath, my energy, my everything. Hazel is tugging my coat off, then, urging me to give it to her, while Mrs. Daly sweeps up to me and presses a glass of wine into my hands.

  “Welcome to the party, darlings,” she says. “You both look so lovely.”

  Maverick has wandered off to join Weston across the room. The other people in attendance—probably family friends or who knows what—resume conversation. There’s no penis confetti to be seen, even though this counts as one of the bigger surprises of my life.

  I turn to Hazel. “What, exactly, are we attending?”

  Her grin turns sheepish. “A clinic opening?”

  The details begin to sink in. A poster hung on the wall with the blueprint of the future clinic, which is springing to life around us. I see the sign in the front window that says “COMING SOON: BAYSHORE’S FIRST CARDIAC CLINIC.”

  Dom doesn’t come near me. He just watches me, rubbing at the back of his neck, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him.

  “Why am I here?” I ask Hazel, but I’m looking at Dom.

  “Because he wanted you to be,” Hazel says sweetly, squeezing my hand.

  Tears are pressing to my eyes, and I don’t quite understand why. I need some cool air, stat. I finally jerk my eyes off Dom and turn back the way we came. Hazel doesn’t stop me, but footsteps thunder behind me. Just as I reach the back door, Dom’s bass pierces the air.

  “London, please don’t go.”

  I steel myself before I turn to face him. He’s a wall of man before me, somehow more handsome and domineering than I remember.

  Or maybe it just seems that way because the pieces are clicking together; he’s becoming that man we both know he’s always wanted to be. This honest version of himself is far sexier than I’ve ever seen him before, which just intensifies my need for a breather.

  “I’m not leaving,” I whisper. “I’m just hot.”

  Dom pushes open the door then, inviting in a gust of cold air. I sigh with relief, and the door clangs shut a moment later. We watch each other for a moment, everything bloated and unsaid in the air between us.

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you left,” he says, his voice uncharacteristically raw. “I’m a 258-point asshole.”

  “You earned every single one of those points.” I cross my arms defiantly—it might help prop me up against the pending onslaught of tenderness that he is poised to send my way. I can tell by the way he’s looking at me. The way he’s got regret slashed across his features, combined with the sweetest, softest look in the world. He’s preparing himself to melt at my feet. Beg for forgiveness.

  Yes, he turned me into melted horny butter. But I might have made him melted repentant butter.

  “I’d like to see the scorecard,” he says. “As a learning tool.”

  I sniff. “I don’t know. You’ll probably just dispute the entries. Doesn’t seem like you trust much of what I say.” And suddenly, all the emotions are bubbling back up to the surface. Everything, from the very beginning. From when he called my methods pointless, all the way to when he said I couldn’t restrain myself from having an affair with Carl. My throat clamps shut, and I turn away from him so he won’t catch the sheen of tears in my eyes.

  He reaches for my hand, pulling me closer to him. I crumple against him like a willing rag doll, unable to resist palming the hard planes of his chest.

  “I’ve never regretted anything more than how I treated you the day after Thanksgiving. I don’t regret much in life, but that will haunt me until the day I die. Along with a few other choice words I’ve said to you since we met.”

  More tears well up. I can’t speak at all now.

  “You are the most amazing, talented, gorgeous, vivacious piece of glitter I have ever met.”

  A laugh tumbles out of me, even though I’m supposed to be angry. “Did you just call me glitter?”

  A smile tugs at his lips. “I’m an asshole with a scorecard. It only makes sense that you’re the most sparkly thing out there.”

  “Dom, I don’t know—”

  “London, I love you,” he says at the same time.

  The tears that were threatening finally make good on their threat. They begin dripping down my cheeks. His arms go around me, pulling me into a deep, warm hug.

  His heat isn’t oppressive though. His heat provides balance. It provides clarity. It provides a lightning strike of truth that makes the tears flow faster.

  I cling to him, and his grip goes tighter around me.

  “I love you, too,” I wail into his chest. “Fuck, I do.”

  “Please forgive me, London,” he murmurs into the side of my head. “You don’t have to now. I know I hurt you so bad, and you didn’t deserve any of it. But believe me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

  “Does that mean weekly postcards for the rest of our lives?”

  “I have a few other ideas, if the postcards aren’t effective.”

  “They’ve been effective. But I w
ant to see what else you have planned.”

  “It wouldn’t be very smart of me to reveal all my romantic ideas all at once,” he whispers, his blue gaze searching my face.

  “Ah. So you finally accept that you’re romantic?”

  “Accepted. Absorbed. Inscribed on my tombstone already.”

  I roll my lips inward to squash the giggle threatening to spill out. “What else will be etched on that? You better not miss your chance to immortalize your Black Friday beatdown.”

  “Fine. Here’s what it’ll say.” He wets his bottom lip, his palms sliding to the swell of my hips. “Dr. Romantic, Black Friday Legend, Swallowed by the London Fog.”

  This time, the laugh rockets out of me. “You make me sound like a plague. Or at the very least, something you’ll need to clear up with medication.”

  “It’s fine. If you’re an illness, I want to be under the weather for the rest of my life.”

  My cheeks are straining from how hard I’m smiling. “Okay, you’re dangerously close to losing the romantic title.”

  He presses his forehead to mine, drowning me in his mahogany musk. “Let me rephrase. I want you in my life, beautiful. For now and for always.”

  Everything inside me is melting under his sweet words, including my balance. When I stumble, he grips me by the elbows, a sexy smile waiting for me.

  “Where did you find this building?” I whisper.

  “My Grammy Ethel left it to me when she passed,” he says quietly, his gaze stuck on my lips. “It was what she left behind so that I could find my soul mate.”

  It doesn’t make a ton of sense, but now’s not the time to question it. Our lips are getting closer.

  “Why aren’t you in Cleveland?” I ask, barely able to concentrate on anything that isn’t this pending kiss. “How did you have time to…you know…start a clinic?”