Chapter Twelve – Chloe

 

I wish I could forget about kissing Dom as easily as I forget what I walked into a room for.

 

In hindsight, getting drunk to forget about Dom kissing me wasn’t the greatest idea I’d ever had. It’d been almost forty-eight hours since I’d seen him last, since he’d kissed me, and I was still hungover.

From what? I didn’t know. I’d drank enough water that I was no longer severely dehydrated, but my head still pounded. I hadn’t been this messed up over anyone, well, ever.

I’d never cared enough about anyone to feel this way.

My stomach had tied itself into knots the second Dom’s lips touched mine, and it was still that way. A tight ball of confusion and frustration that fed nausea.

I downed the rest of my coffee and leaned back against the counter, staring out of the window on the other side of the kitchen. A blur flashed as a bird flew past, and I sighed.

I was supposed to go to work today, but I didn’t know how I was supposed to. I wanted to crawl back into bed and go all moody teenage girl while I tried to make sense of what was happening in my life.

Was my period coming? Was this why I was so miserable?

I needed to go to the store and stock up on donuts and candy and ice cream if that was the case.

If it wasn’t…it was going to be a damn miserable week.

I pulled down the hem of my oversized t-shirt as I moved from my kitchen through to the living room. My laptop was open but asleep on the sofa, so as I sat down, I tapped the keyboard to wake it up.

It whirred to life as I looked up at the silent re-run of Friends that was playing on the TV. Ross kissed Rachel in the doorway of Central Perk, and I groaned, rolling my head to the side.

Was there any escape from the kissing? Would I ever be able to escape this hell?

God, what was wrong with me? Why didn’t I just confront Dom about this? God only knew I confronted him about just about everything else. This was no different to him losing his keys or putting the empty milk carton back in the fridge. It was an issue he’d caused that needed to be fixed.

But it wasn’t. It was only an issue because I was in love with him and, apparently, contrary to my years-long belief, he felt something for me, too.

It was like watching a baby pick up food for the first time and wondering what the hell you were supposed to do with it.

That was what it was.

I was baby, and Dom was a carrot, and I didn’t know what the hell to do.

I knew we had to talk about it. I wasn’t that stupid—I was shaken up. I was confused. I was spaced out, and more than anything I really needed to get my shit together.

At least I’d showered today. That was one step toward the adulting I clearly needed to do.

Which was why I swung my feet up onto the coffee table, put the laptop on my legs, and ignored all of that. I checked and responded to emails. I sent emails to clients who’d already been on dates and agreed with one of them that the original guy wasn’t quite right for her.

Adding her to my to-do list, I made a note to double-check her applications, because I was pretty sure that the guy I’d matched her with had been just about perfect.

Of course, that wasn’t the be all and end all of it. Someone could be perfect on paper but so, so wrong in real life.

Like me and Dom. On paper, the grand total of reasons for us to be together was a big fat zero. In reality?

Reality didn’t make sense. I’d never really understood why I felt the way I did about him—I just felt it. It was the same as liking tacos or pizza.

It just was.

Love. It made no sense.

I pulled my attention from the laptop to the TV once again. I didn’t know what it said about me that I had the ability to tell exactly what episode I was watching of Friends with only a few seconds of it being on, but I watched as—still on mute—Rachel cried by the window.

I felt her.

I so felt her.

I dropped my head onto the back cushions of the sofa and sighed. For a matchmaker, I had a freaking miserable love life.

The ding of my doorbell echoed through the silence of my house, and I pushed my laptop onto the cushion next to me to get up.

And stopped right before I opened the door.

I was only wearing a t-shirt. An oversized bed shirt that had a cartoon unicorn on the front…and no bra beneath it.

Thank God I had panties on.

The doorbell went again, and I winced. “Who is it?” I shouted.

“Dom.”

“Oh, shit,” I whispered.

Well, there was no way he was coming in. Not when I was dressed like this. I couldn’t care less about the unicorn shirt thing, but I wasn’t going to open the door to him when I wasn’t wearing a bra.

“I’m not here!”

“Chloe.” His voice was muffled. “I can see you through the glass. And hear you.”

“You can’t come in!”

“Why not?”

I looked around frantically, flapping my hands. “Because I—I’m naked!”

There was a short silence and then, “I’ve probably seen worse.”

“Ugh! I’m not really naked, but I’m not dressed for company.”

Another pause. “Are you wearing those unicorn pajamas? That stupid long shirt thing?”

“Oh my God, how see-through is my glass?” I snapped, turning the key and yanking open the door.

Dom stood there, hands gripping either side of my door frame. His gaze roved over my body, lingering for a hot second on my chest. “Not nearly as see-through as the unicorn is,” he said, almost appreciatively.

I covered my chest with my arms. “What are you doing here? And how did you know I was wearing this?”

“Chlo, that thing is about fifteen years old. I’m surprised it's still held together by its stitches.”

I wasn’t going to tell him I’d had my mom redo the hem twice in the last five years.

“Whatever. Why are you here?”

He quirked one dark eyebrow. Disbelief shone in his eyes. “You don’t know?”

“Look, if you’re here to be a dick, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood for it.”

“I’m not.” His tone was a lot more serious than a second ago. “I’m not here to be a dick, Chlo. I’m here to talk to you.”

I didn’t have to be Albert Einstein to know what this was about. Although, if I were, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, would I?

I’d be too fucking smart for this shit.

“Fine. Come in, but I need to get changed.”

“Don’t get changed on my account.”

“I’m getting changed.” I made sure my tone was more assertive, then left him standing in the doorway as I turned and stalked toward my room.

There was no way I was having this conversation in my fifteen-year-old pajamas.

Especially since, yes, this was see-through over my boobs.

 

***

 

I walked back into the kitchen.

Sans unicorn. Plus bra. Plus clean panties.

Sans visible nipples.

I was winning so far.

“All right,” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “You’re here to talk. Let’s talk.”

“Do you have any food?” Dom said, head inside my fridge. “I skipped lunch.”

“It’s past lunch?”

“It’s two-thirty. What have you been doing all day in your teenage pajamas?”

I folded my arms over my chest. “Googling the most efficient ways to murder someone and watching Forensic Files on Netflix.”

“Find anything good?” he asked, pulling open my fruit drawer. “Why is there bacon in your fruit drawer?”

“Bacon is fruit.”

“Bacon couldn’t be further from fruit.”

“They have the same nutritional value in my eyes. God, next time you’ll tell me that wine isn’t really grape juice.”

“It’s not pure grape juice,” he said, shutting the drawer.

“Watch your filthy mouth.”

Dom snorted. “If you think that’s filthy, you should hear me during football.”

“Since when did you play football?”

“I don’t,” he said, closing the fridge. “But I watch it, and I’m a better coach than this city’s damn team has right now,” he finished on a grumble.

“Great. A couch coach. Just what the world needs more of.” I sighed, passing him to the fridge. I pulled out the carton of orange juice and grabbed a glass. “Can you cut to the chase? I was working before you interrupted me.”

“You were watching Friends.”

“On mute. It doesn’t count if it was on mute.” I put the juice back in the fridge and cradled the glass in front of me. “And yes, I do know why you’re here. No, I don’t have the patience for this bullshit small-talk, so you have two choices.”

“Do I, now?”

“Yes. You explain why you kissed me, or you fuck off.”

Apparently, I could be confrontational about this. There was the Chloe I knew and loved. She was in there somewhere, just waiting to be pissed off by Dominic Austin.

Dom’s lips twitched to the side, and he perched on my dining table. He crossed his arms over his chest and met my eyes, but I was momentarily distracted by the way his biceps pushed against the light gray material of his shirt.

“You’re awfully confrontational for someone gawping at my arms like they’ve never seen a tensed bicep before.” He grinned.

“You’re awfully ballsy for someone who kissed me and keeps blowing me off like I’m a leaf and he’s a tornado.”

“I might well be a tornado for all you know.”

“If you’re a tornado, I’m Mother Nature, and I’m about to put your ass out.” I nodded toward the knives in the holder behind me. “Talk. Now.”

Dom held up both his hands. “All right, all right. Calm down, Chlo.”

I glared at him.

He pushed off the table, standing up straight, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell you. I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

I slid my hands around my body, hugging myself. “I want to know why you kissed me. That’s it. I don’t want a fucking fairytale, I just want to know why.”

“I wanted to.” He stopped, meeting my eyes. His gaze was raw and honest, and there was no way he was lying to me.

I knew him too well.

His left cheek didn’t twitch the way it had when he was sixteen and swore he hadn’t sneaked out for a field party. It didn’t twitch the way it had when his dad had found a condom wrapper in his pants pocket when he was seventeen, and he lied about losing his virginity.

It didn’t twitch.

Not for a second.

“You wanted to?” I asked quietly. “Why? How? That doesn’t make sense?”

“I know that. Shit, Chlo. You think I don’t know that? I do.” He scrubbed one hand through his dark hair. “I know it doesn’t make sense that I wanted to kiss you. Makes even less sense that I did. All I know is that I did it and I don’t regret it, so if you think I’m here to apologize, think again.”

I dropped my gaze to the floor for a second. “If you apologized, you’d have a knife through your thigh right now.”

“And I bet you know where that fucking artery is, don’t you?”

I nodded. Once.

God bless the Investigation Discovery channel.

“Look.” He took a step toward me, holding his hand out for a second before he put it back in his pocket, looking more like an awkward teen boy than a man who was thirty within a matter of months. “I get it, yeah? You and I, we fight like cat and dog. I can’t believe we haven’t killed each other, but you can’t tell me you didn’t feel something the other night. You can’t stand there and tell me you didn’t want me the way I wanted you.”

I swallowed. I didn’t want to admit it. I was, shit.

I was afraid.

“It’s fine. You don’t have to agree, because I know you did, Chlo. You wouldn’t have kissed me back if you didn’t want me, too.”

“Why are you here now?” My voice was scratchier than I’d wanted, but I couldn’t stop my throat from being dry. It was a desolate damn desert back there.

“Because you got blind drunk last night and you’re working from home today, so I know you’re avoiding me.”

“Someone thinks highly of himself.” I snorted and pushed off the counter to walk into the front room.

His footsteps echoed after me. “You gonna deny it, Chlo? Gonna run away and tell me you didn’t fucking want me, too?”

“I didn’t say that!” I turned on the balls of my feet and pointed my finger at him. “I didn’t say that. I’m not saying that. I’m saying fuck you, Dom. So what if I got drunk last night and spent today in my pajamas? Does it matter? That doesn’t mean I’m avoiding you. That means I’m hiding while I mend my fragile, alcohol-broken consciousness.”

“You’re argumentative for a hungover person.”

“I’m not hungover!”

“Then stop using yesterday’s hangover as an excuse! I speak to my sister, you know. She told me you wolfed down a twelve-inch pizza for lunch like you’d never had anything to drink.”

I was going to kill Peyton.

I threw my arm in the air. “You know what? Go. I don’t want to speak to you right now. I don’t want you in my house. Get lost.”

“You’re not walking away from me, Chloe.”

I stopped and looked over my shoulder. “Looks like I am, smartass!”

He stormed toward me, grabbed my wrist, and yanked me against him. My heart thundered against my ribs, but I set my jaw and stared up at him.

“You don’t get to manhandle me like I’m a wonky pancake!” I snapped, wrenching my wrist out of his grip. “Be a civilized fucking human being, goddamn it.”

“You won’t listen to me!” His jaw twitched.

“You aren’t talking, Dominic.”

He ran his hand through his hair, exasperated. “I don’t know how to talk to you! You argue and fight and—fuck me, Chlo. You’re impossible. I want to talk to you, but I don’t fucking know how, and it’s driving me insane.”

I stepped back. “So, don’t. Don’t talk to me. Fight me. Scream at me. I don’t care, just spit it out.”

His nostrils flared. His inhale was deep and heavy, and his eyes shone with emotion I wasn’t ready to decipher.

He rolled his shoulders, clenching his fists at his sides. His gaze flickered away from me. Dark brown eyes hit the wall next to me before they slammed into me and held my own gaze hostage.

“I want you.”

I swallowed.

“I want you,” he repeated. “Is that clear enough for you? Will that you make you listen? Is this the fight you want? Where I stand here and tell you I didn’t kiss you to shut you the fuck up? That I kissed you because I couldn’t take not kissing anymore? Is that the fucking fight you want? The one where I win because I’m being so goddamn honest with you that you can’t do anything but stare at me like I just stepped on your kitten?”

Yes.

Yes.

It was the fight I wanted.

And it was the fight I was going to have.

“Why then?” I asked, my voice quietly but deathly. “Was it a spur of the moment? Did you plan it? Did you actually want to do it, or was it because you had the urge?”

“I kissed you because I wanted you so damn bad it hurt. I don’t need a reason for that.” His eyes were on fire—a roaring furnace of anger and honesty that burned brightly. “Why did you kiss me back?”

“I don’t need a reason for that!”

“You can’t throw my words back at me.”

“I can do whatever the hell I want!” I wanted to lash out, to hit the wall, to kick something. The anger and frustration that burned through my veins had been building for years.

I’d wanted this conversation for as long as I could remember.

Looked like I was finally getting it.