As I buzz around the house doing my usual tasks, he doesn’t seem to notice me at all. That’s not out of the ordinary, and yet this time, it feels personal.
Maybe because not even twelve hours ago he was knuckle-deep inside of me, getting to know me on the most intimate level. Now he doesn’t seem to care to know me even at a surface level.
“I bet he doesn’t knowmycoffee order,” I mumble as I help myself to a cup. Usually, I bring my own, but I was already late. I didn’t have time to stop for my usual iced white chocolate raspberry mocha. That’s my order, by the way. Unbeknownst to Mr. Hotshot, in there.
“Miss Rojas?” Dominic calls from his office, and I take another sip of my coffee. It is so strong it could peel paint off the walls.
“You need me, Mr. Wolfe?” I ask, pushing the door the rest of the way open but staying in the doorway.
His office, like the rest of his house, is pristine. Everything is simple, but not understated. The place even smells like money. I prefer Bath and Body Works wallflowers myself.
Dominic looks up at me and narrows his eyes again, this time almost like it’s an inconvenience. “Do you always wear your hair like that?” he asks.
I reach up and touch my messy bun. Usually, it’s in a high ponytail or a loose braid. This morning I threw it up into a scrunchie and called it good. It was as good as it was going to get, anyway. “I wear it up at work, yes.”
“Has it always been that color?” he asks.
“Dark brown?” I ask as my heart thumps in my chest. “It’s my natural color, sir.”
“I suppose that tracks,” he says.
“Is that why you called me in here?” I dare to raise my tone. “To ask me if I color my hair?”
“Of course not. There’s actually something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
This is it. He knows who I am.
He knows it was me he pulled away from an irate man last night.
He knows it was me that tended to his cut.
He knows it was me that he lost control with in his car.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice shakier than I mean for it to be.
“I am in need of some athletic tape,” he says, and I blink.
“Athletic tape?” I ask. “You mean, like, gauze?”
“It’s called KT tape, actually,” he corrects me, and something in me snaps.
“I know what it’s…” I bite my lips to stop myself from losing my temper. “I can get that for you, sir,” I say, despite my urge to grab the bulldog-shaped paperweight off his desk and chuck it at his other eye.
“Good,” he says, looking back at his computer, and that is my cue to kick rocks. I click my tongue before turning to leave.
“Oh, one more thing,” he says, and I stop, not bothering to turn back around. It’s not like he’s looking at me, anyway. The man doesn’t even know what color my hair is, for Christ’s sake.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Make sure it’s black,” he says.
I grit my jaw and with a hard smirk, I say, “Of course.”
Once I am out of sight, I shake my head. This man may be more skilled with his hands than anyone I’ve ever known, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a jerk.
“What time did you get to bed last night? You look like hell,” Lainey isn’t one to tiptoe around feelings. Usually, I don’t mind, but by the time I get to the Cockpit after leaving Dominic’s, I am so beat I could do with some empathy.
“Let’s just say it was late enough to be early,” I say as I pull a fresh load of hot glasses out of the sanitizer behind the bar.
