“But,” he adds quietly, “earlier this season, I did tell my agent to keep an ear open there.”
My breath catches. “You did?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t look away. “At the time, I didn’t know where I was going to land. I was protecting myself. Making sure I had options.”
His words land deeper than I expected.
“I didn’t expect LA to stick,” he continues. “That part caught me off guard.”
“So, if they called now?” I ask.
The thought of him leaving—of this fragile, beautiful thing between us being cut short just as it’s beginning—makes my chest ache.
Dom reaches across the table and takes my hand. His palm is warm against mine, his touch gentle despite his evident strength. “It would suck,” he admits. “Especially now.” He gestures between us with his free hand. “With this.”
“This,” I echo, a smile tugging at my lips despite the heaviness in my chest. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“What would you call it?” he asks, his thumb tracing small circles on my palm that send tingles up my arm.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Something good. Something I don’t want to end.”
“Me neither,” he says softly. “And look, I can’t promise I won’t get traded. That’s not how this works. But I can promise that if it happens, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
The simple certainty in his voice eases some of the tension in my shoulders. “Together,” I repeat, and I like the sound of it.
Dom squeezes my hand once more before releasing it to uncover two plates of chocolate cake under silver domes at the side of the table. “Dessert?”
I laugh, grateful for the lighter turn in conversation. “Always.” The cake is rich and decadent, the perfect ending to a perfect meal. As we eat, Dom steers the conversation in a new direction.
“So, what’s the status of that athlete housing idea of yours? Have you reached out to any investors yet?” he asks, taking a bite of his cake.
I shake my head. “I’ve been working on a proposal, but I haven’t had the courage to send it out to anyone.”
“Why not?”
I shrug, trying to appear casual even as my anxiety flares. “Fear of failure, I guess. My track record isn’t exactly stellar.”
“Nicole,” Dom says, his voice gentle but firm. “This isn’t just another idea. It’s solving a problem people like me actually have.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself,” I admit. “But then I remember the rotten egg debacle, and my confidence takes a nosedive.”
“One failure doesn’t define you or your abilities.”
His words echo Nora’s from earlier, and something inside me shifts slightly. Maybe they’re both right. Maybe I’m being too hard on myself.
“Actually,” I say, pulling out my phone, “I have a draft email to Cityscape Investment Group. I’ve been staring at it for three days without hitting send.”
Dom’s eyebrows rise. “Cityscape? They’re major players.”
“Too ambitious?”
“No,” he says quickly. “Just impressed. Can I see it?”
I hesitate only briefly before unlocking my phone and navigating to the draft email. I slide the device across the table to him, watching nervously as he reads.
His expression is serious, focused, as he scrolls through my detailed proposal. I’ve included preliminary market analysis, potential locations, financial projections, and concept designs. It represents weeks of research and planning, far more preparation than I’ve put into any of my previous ideas.
“This is really good,” he says finally, looking up at me. “You’ve thought of everything.”
