He does open the car door for me and lets me get comfortably situated before closing it behind me, but never once does he peek down my T-shirt.
It’s somehow gentlemanly and tactical all at the same time, and I can’t decide how that makes me feel. I’m definitely not used to caring who’s in the parking lot, other than the usual female safety measures, which I’ve been much more cautious about since Mr. Duncan’s little scene.
But Dominick’s eye is practiced and actively seeking out threats. It’s strange, like I’m suddenly Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard, my lover going all Secret Service on me, and I wonder if there’s a gun underneath Dom’s suit jacket. It’s a reminder that I am just a regular average woman and he’s . . . him.
I’m not putting myself down. I know I’m the shit, but there’s something more to Dominick. It’s nothing you can put a finger on, just an importance, a weight, a responsibility he bears that I can’t imagine. Not when the most important thing I do is pay my bills on time, and I have a bad habit of leaving a trail of dirty coffee cups in my wake. He’s just . . . extra.
He comes around, getting in, and I don’t even have to ask what’ll happen to my car. If I need it before tomorrow, it’ll be there, perhaps even washed, waxed, and last week’s Starbucks cups cleaned out of the passenger seat.
I am surprised when he pulls out of the lot and goes right instead of left as I expect. “Hey, I live that way,” I say, pointing behind us.
“I know,” he says simply.
I raise an eyebrow, looking at him, but he doesn’t turn his eyes off the road, handling the Mercedes with the respect it deserves.
“I thought you said you were taking me home?”
“I am,” he replies. “To my home.”
There’s no hint of a smile, no sign he’s joking. His words broach no argument, not that I would, but at the stoplight, he looks to see my reaction. That look tells me more than any words could.
He’s used to getting his way, people jumping when he says to, and though he likes to order me around, he cares whether I want to do what he’s demanding. He’s domineering, but with good intentions, at least where I’m concerned. He’s a man who may never ask my permission for anything, but I have no doubt that if I said to take me to my apartment, he would.
But I don’t want to go there. I want to see where Dominick lives, what his space looks like, feels like.
My answer is a smile, and I place my hand on top of his big right hand until the light changes, and I wiggle back, enjoying the luxury of leather seats and ready to see where this ride takes me.
His home is beautiful, a huge house on the outskirts of town, with vaguely Italian décor with statues on pedestals and fancy paintings like a museum, poufy leather couches with tufting, and perfectly-placed pillows and throws.
It feels warm and inviting, but nothing like the man.
It’s like a decorator version of what a mansion should look like.
I settle down on the couch, running my hand over the pillow as Dom watches me curiously. “What do you think?”
I war with whether to be polite or honest and decide that he’d see through any falseness anyway, so why not go for broke?
“It’s pretty, but completely not you. You hired someone to decorate and gave them free reign. It’s them, not you.”
His lips draw down until they’re nearly invisible, and for a second, I think I overstepped big-time, but then he chuckles, nodding. “You are very observant, Allison. What would you have expected if it was ‘me’?”
Now that’s a dangerous question, but I stick with honesty as the best policy and jump into the deep end.
I let the words rush out before I’m even aware of thinking them, “Modern. Sleek lines, nothing extraneous or fluffy. Keep the leather seating, but it’d be a different style. More metal accents, bare-boned but with each item being one of luxury. Something you appreciate, not merely fancy because of the price tag on it. Like . . . your office?”
He seems surprised, and his smile widens a little more as he comes over and sits next to me. “Good read. And you? What does your space speak about you?”
I consider the question, thinking about my apartment and what I thought of as I decorated it. “Brightness. Dance. Comfort. Layered. In that order.”
He nods, taking my chin and turning my face to look into my soul. “I agree. Your home is a good representation of your own vibrancy. It’s light and exotic. It feels like your inner chaos exploded all around you.”
My burgeoning smile falls, and I’m struck by a sudden bout of insecurity. Dom’s so buttoned up, every I dotted, every T crossed. But me . . .