Swink (Landry Family 5)

I OBSERVE MY WATCH MOVING another minute forward, making it seven after eleven. That’s seven minutes after the time Dom said he would be here today to pick me up. Dom’s never late, not without calling.

For some reason, I didn’t call Sienna after he left yesterday. I sent Joy to voicemail and poured a glass of wine and sat on the sofa alone. Having someone around would only have made it worse, made Dominic’s absence that much more obvious.

He sent one text really late saying goodnight. It was a quick, simple few words that at least let me know he was thinking about me. I returned many more words than he sent, but there was no follow-up. I waited for alm

ost an hour for a reply that never came.

I curled up in one of his t-shirts with the phone to my chest like it brought me closer to him somehow and fell asleep with tearstains on my pillow.

Just when I thought things were turning for us, moving to something more solid, this happens. Usually things like this are just a misunderstanding or something dumb that can be fixed. This is not. I can feel it. This is a harbinger of what we’ve both feared: that we’re too different to work.

It’s a conversation we’ve had many times, a case-in-point that’s made over and over again. It’s why he hasn’t met my family. It’s the reason he doesn’t want me at the gym or bar. This is why we argue over who pays for dinner when we go out—when I know he’s tight on money and he refuses to let me pick up the bill—and why I don’t understand why he thinks fighting is an acceptable job. He also can’t fathom how my family is so entwined.

We’re entirely different. It’s something we’ve always known. Maybe we both thought it would end before it mattered, but it didn’t. And now it does.

A separate, equally intricate knot has twisted itself in my stomach that I can’t loosen. When I think of Dominic and our argument, I think of Nate. My stomach rolls every time I consider I may have put a wedge between them. If anyone knows the importance and preciousness of a sibling bond, it’s me. To think I might’ve chipped away at that makes me want to die.

Now, eight minutes past eleven, I wonder if he didn’t stay up pondering the same questions, coming to the same realizations . . . leaving me sitting here this morning for nothing.

A knock sounds against the door and my heart leaps with the doorbell. I’m halfway there before I have to go back to the sofa, swipe up my purse, and then almost jog down the foyer again.

Taking a deep breath, I pause and try to remember the little positive mantra Mallory teaches at yoga. But after a few seconds of nothing, I can’t resist seeing him any longer and yank open the door.

A crisp blue and white striped shirt covers his chest, a pair of khakis I didn’t know he owned span his long, lean legs. His hair is styled to the side like he only does when he takes me out to dinner. He pulls his sunglasses off and I see a little puffiness beneath his blue orbs reminiscent of mine.

“Hey,” I say, forcing a swallow.

“Hi.” His eyes drift easily down my yellow dress, pausing at my espadrille sandals, before roaming back up my body again. “You ready?”

“Yeah. Let me lock up.”

He waits patiently while I fiddle with the locks and I hold my breath as I turn around. Any other day, my hand would find his as we make our way down the sidewalk. Today, his palm finds the small of my back and guides me towards his Camaro instead.

His hand is heavy against the thin fabric of my dress. I can smell his body wash, a clean, cedar scent lingering under the spice of his cologne. Breathing it in, I let it dawdle on my senses, giving me the comfort I’ve craved for hours.

Without a word, he pops open the passenger door and watches me climb inside. He closes it softly before moving around the front of the car and slipping in the seat beside me.

Our gazes meet somewhere over the console and a million things are said, but none of them involve words spoken.

The engine roars to life, the tires semi-squealing as he moves us out into the street of my neighborhood, through the gates, and out onto the main road.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” I admit as we wait at a stoplight. Turning to look at him, he’s watching me with a furrowed brow.

“I told you I would.”

“I know. I just thought . . .”

“At least you’re thinking now. That’s a plus.” He shifts into first gear and charges the car forward. It zips through traffic and hits another red light. “I’m really trying to not be mad about this. I’m trying to be logical.”

“I appreciate that.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s not quite a smile. “I know your intentions were good.”

“Dom, I didn’t mean to cause a problem with this. I—”

I’m silenced by the bark of the tires and a lurching of the car as we propel forward. My heart thumping in my chest, my back is pressed into the leather as we speed down the next block to the next light.

“Have you told Ford about the loan?” he asks, looking forward.