He shrugs lightly. "Fine. Not much to tell."
He's cagey about his upbringing. Interesting. I elbow him lightly. "Come on. I showed you mine. You show me yours."
His gaze slips from my face, landing on my neck, moving across from shoulder to shoulder. My breath hitches as I watch his lazy perusal. Then he says, "If the tale of my childhood had a flavor, it would be vanilla. Very boring. Nondescript."
"Vanilla is good," I argue. "Vanilla is a staple. A universal flavor for a reason. Me personally?" I sip my drink. "I happen to like vanilla."
His chin dips fractionally, as if to sayI accept and appreciate your defense of the flavor and my childhood.
Something hits me square in the back, an elbow, I think, and I pitch forward, mojito sloshing dangerously close to my outfit. Before I can topple out of my seat or collide with the bar, a pair of hands catches me. Steady. Warm. One at my hip, the other brushing my upper arm.
"You ok?" Dom's voice is low, a terse murmur near my ear.
"I'm fine." His proximity is far more flustering than being bumped into. Dom's fingers dally just long enough to make my skin hum.
"Sorry about that," a voice says in a British accent. A man steps up to our seats, wearing the same post-work uniform as every other male in the vicinity, and stares at me. "You're gorgeous," he says, eyes glassy. For some reason his accent makes the interruption less annoying. "Good work, mate," the guy says to Dom. He extends a fist, waiting for Dom's tap. This move brings him closer to me, and I'm met with the skunky scent of beer.
Dom obliges. He smiles good-naturedly, eyes locked on me when he says in agreement, "She's beautiful."
"Cheers," the guy says, lifting his pint in the air, hearty and drunk and happy. He moves away. I roll my eyes. "Nice work, playing along like that."
Dom's blue-eyed gaze grips mine. "Who said I was playing?"
It’s probably still part of going along with the inebriated guy, but something about the way Dom says it, the way he’s looking at me, makes it feel like it could be more.
I glance away before I think too hard about it, tapping my nail against the side of my glass. I'm unsure what to do or say. Dom has exceeded every expectation. It would take a lot to make me relinquish my hold on my personal feelings of a happily ever after, but it could be a starting off point. I reserved that last ten percent for precisely this anomaly.
"So, Dom," I start, crossing my legs at the knee and leaning a little closer. He sees my shift in body language, mirroring it with his own micro-movements. The dip of his shoulder closest to me. The tightening of his hand that rests on his thigh.Yeah, this is a date. And a good one, too. "Tell me something you hate."
"Hmm," he rumbles. "My birthday."
The corners of my lips turn down. "Not lima beans, or people who chew with their mouths open?"
He makes a face likefair point. "Those are gross, too."
"What is it you don't like about your birthday?" Sympathy rushes over me, and I place mysympathetichand on his forearm. I definitely do not take notice of the warmth of his skin, the light dusting of hair, the scattered freckles.
He takes a moment to ponder the answer, then says, "The attention."
I retract my hand, using it to play with the gold bangles on my wrist. "You had me worried there for a second. I was afraid you had a very sad story to tell about your birthday."
"No sad stories." He points at his chest. "Vanilla, remember?"
I run a fingertip through the condensation sweating on my glass. "I don't know, Dom, something tells me beneath this composed exterior, you might be a unique flavor."
He holds my gaze, something passing through his eyes. I don't know him well enough yet to understand what it is.
A ringing trills from his shorts, and he glances down. Frowning, he says, "I'm sorry, I don't normally keep my ringer turned on." He pulls his phone from his pocket, glancing at the screen. "I need to take this. Excuse me."
"Sure," I say, shifting on my stool to make it easier for him to get up.
He smiles apologetically. His thigh brushes mine as he steps between our seats. It's warm, strong and solid. His forearm sweeps over the curve of my shoulder, sending a zing of electricity down my arm.
He bends down, his lips near the shell of my ear. He smells so good I nearly groan. "I'll only be a moment," he says, then smoothly steps away.
Over my shoulder, I watch as he disappears down a short hallway leading to the bathrooms.
"That guy is Klein's cousin?"
