"I loved the energy of the city when I first got there. I moved for college, and never left. But lately"—he shrugs—"I've lost that lovin' feeling."
I smile at the old-timey song reference. "What are you working on right now?"
"Klein is working on the idea for his second book. And I've signed an author who's writing a tell-all about her years working in the restaurant industry. I think it'll be successful." Dom runs his hands through his hair. "I love my career. It means a lot to me. The authors I work with, the new ones at least, they have stars in their eyes. A dream in their heart. I'm part of making it come true." His eyes flicker to me. "Like you, I suppose. Your marketing plans help business owners' dreams come true."
"That's the goal. But don't try to switch the focus to me. You do that a lot."
His eyebrows raise. "Do I?"
"Mm-hmm. Keep going. Why have you lost that lovin' feeling?"
"I don't know that I have a real grasp on the way I feel yet. All I really know is that when I walk into the office, when I sit down in my office chair and look at my desk and my computer, I don't feel the thrill I used to."
My heart twists. A person trades a good portion of their lives for time spent nurturing a career. For so many, it's how they measure themselves. For better or worse, it can be how a person defines their existence. When someone asks,What do you do?they meanWhat do you do for work? They're not asking if you topped your toast with butter or jam that morning.
"What do you think would give you that thrill?"
"I'm not sure," he says, grabbing for the towel folded at the end of his chair. He runs it over his head, drying, then drags his free hand through his mop of gently sloping curls.
Oh. My.Watching someone you're physically attracted to drag their hands through their hair is highly underrated.
He continues, unaware of my invisiblephysical response. "I know I'm not disenfranchised with the work, so I guess I'll have to determine if it's the company, or the city, or something else entirely."
"That must be tough," I say sympathetically. "Wrestling with something like that."
Dom gestures around. "On the bright side, I'm currently poolside on a perfect seventy-five degree day." He grins, and it's like the sun chasing away mildly threatening clouds. "With my wife."
I wait for the customary annoyance at the reminder, but it doesn't arrive. Hmm, that's odd. There's probably a traffic jam inside me, caused by the rousing of my nether regions.
Dom closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the plastic chair. "There's a siesta in my immediate future."
I wake up my phone and return to my emails. "I'll make sure to punch you if you start snoring."
"I don't snore."
"That remains to be seen."
CHAPTER 29
Dominic
There was no poolside punching,so I guess I didn't snore.
This family dinner, though? It's making me wish Cecily had delivered a swift jab to my nose. It would've given me a reason to hide out in our room.
Duke and Glenn haven't looked up from their phones once the entire dinner, unless it was to confer between the two of them. I'm no stranger to things at work taking a nosedive and needing to divert all my time and energy, but the Hamptons overlook their behavior as if this is a frequent occurrence. Kerrigan is on her phone watching Moose on the pet resort's in-room camera.
My family isn't great, of course, and my dad is always half a hard thought away from a Ponzi scheme at any given moment, but at least they interact.
I shouldn't judge the Hamptons too harshly. They rode in a motor home for more than two hours today, I'm sure they've had plenty of togetherness. My job isn't to judge them, anyway. If anything, I should study their dynamics for a future book idea for Klein, or let myself be entertained by them like an exhibit at the zoo.
I sit back, malbec in hand, and observe the space. The lighting is warm, emanating from elaborate candelabras hanging over the large tables. The walls are wood planked until chair height, when they turn into a decorative stained concrete. A scent of cedar runs through the restaurant. Even the stemless wineglass I'm holding is sturdy and thick, well made.
The Hamptons don't look appreciative of this. They don't look unappreciative either, and therein lies the problem.They don't notice it at all. Delicious red wine, glistening grass-fed beef filets, linen napkins, none of this earns their attention.
It's not totally their fault. They are so used to these fine things, they don't know how fine they are. I'm guilty of the same, in other ways. I don't spend any time thinking about the coffee shops I stop at on my way to work, or the place on the corner where I buy gyros twice a week. I put my head down and grind through my day and when I pick my head up again it's time to go home.
Cecily's elbow sits near the edge of the table, chin propped in her hand. She'd gone back to our room to get ready this afternoon after the pool, and I'd hung back, using work as my excuse. And, yeah, I have plenty of work to do. But really, I didn't want to be in the room with Cecily, hearing the shower running and knowing she's in there sans clothes. And what would happen next? She'd walk out in a towel? Grab her clothes from her bag? Would her underwear fall from her hand, some tiny lace scrap of cloth that will haunt me for the rest of my days? No thanks. Hiding out poolside was safer. I know the shower situation will have to happen sooner or later, but I'll avoid even a single instance of it if I can. By the time I returned to the room, Cecily was sitting out front of the pink casita, working her way through a word search.
