Page 53 of The Summer We Lie

"Yeah. They aren't really worried about payment. It's a friend kind of situation," I explain, trying to focus on the conversation and not on Dom's leg, the way the fabric of his expensive pants feels against my bare skin below my dress hem.

"That's so exciting," Harper says, her eyes bright with support. "I mean, not that she needs it, but I'm happy she has one."

"Me too," I nod, absentmindedly playing with my nose ring. "Hopefully they can get child support out of him at least. Maybe pay for Justin's school so Mom's not stretched so thin." My voice tightens a little thinking about Mom struggling while my father lives his new life.

Harper's expression darkens slightly, her natural protective instinct flaring. "Yep, I hope so. I still can't believe him. I mean, fine, the cheating—that's not a big shocker these days. But the fact that he's avoiding you guys? I just didn't expect that."

"Excuse me, the cheating was not fine when you're the one who walked in on him fucking his secretary," I blurt out, then immediately clap my hand over my mouth, suddenly remembering whose company I'm in. "Shit, sorry," I add, glancing at Dom with embarrassment heating my cheeks.

His expression hardens, jaw tightening in a way that transforms his handsome face into something dangerous. "Don't apologize to me. That's fucked up."

Harper and I both laugh, though mine has a bitter edge that I can't quite hide. "Oh, you have no idea. It left scars," I say, suddenly feeling exposed in ways that have nothing to do with physical contact.

"I can imagine," Dom says quietly, his tone genuinely sympathetic just as the waiter arrives with our drinks and a basket of fragrant artisan bread.

The warm press of his leg against mine suddenly feels different—less like a challenge and more like support, a steady presence when my family history makes me feel unsteady. I reach for my wine glass, the pale gold liquid catching the light, needing it more than ever, wondering if this dinner can get any more complicated or if I'm already in way over my head.

I finish my glass of wine before the food even arrives—it's so good that I drink it too fast, the crisp Riesling disappearing in nervous sips while Dom's leg maintains its maddening pressure against mine. The oysters are amazing—we devour them between snippets of conversation and bursts of laughter. I'm feeling more relaxed now, the wine's gentle buzz softening the jagged edges of my anxiety as the waiter sets our plates in front of us with a flourish.

Everything looks absolutely incredible—my linguine with generous chunks of lobster glistening in the candlelight, Harper's perfectly glazed sea bass resting on a bed of something vibrant and green, and Dom's thick ribeye, seared to perfection with a crust that makes my mouth water instantly. I can't help eyeing Harper's plate with unconcealed longing, and she catches me immediately.

"Girl, don't be shy. If you want a bite of mine, go for it," she says with that easy confidence I've always admired but never quite managed to replicate.

"I do," I admit, chewing my bottom lip. "It looks so yummy." I stretch across the table with my fork, reaching for her plate. The fish falls apart beautifully as I scoop up a bite, flaking into perfect morsels. "Oh god," I say when I taste it, the delicate miso flavor melting on my tongue and making my eyes flutter closed. "I hope mine's that good."

"Oh, it will be. And the potatoes are for everyone, so get some if you want," she offers, gesturing to a side dish of what looks like impossibly creamy garlic mashed potatoes that I hadn't even noticed in my food-induced trance.

"I might. First I need to tackle my pasta." I start winding glossy noodles around my fork, bringing it to my mouth and trying desperately not to slurp. The combination of fresh pasta, buttery lobster, and fragrant herbs hits me all at once in an explosion of flavor, and before I can stop myself, a small, embarrassingly sensual moan escapes around the mouthful.

"Is everything this good?" I ask with my hand covering my mouth, mortified by my unintentional reaction but too blissed out on perfect pasta to truly care.

Harper laughs, clearly amused by my very public foodgasm. I turn to Dom, whose dark eyes seem to have intensified to near-black since I made that sound, his gaze locked on my face with an expression I can't quite decipher.

"Have you had this?" I ask him, gesturing to my plate with my fork, a strand of pasta dangling precariously.

"No," he says simply, his voice noticeably deeper than before, something rough around the edges that wasn't there moments ago.

I point to Harper's plate, feeling strangely bold. "Have you had that?"

He shakes his head, having just put a bite of steak in his mouth. The way his jaw works as he chews is distractingly attractive—the strong line of it moving rhythmically, the slight hollow in his cheeks. I find myself staring longer than is polite.

"Oh wow, so what have you tried?" I ask, genuinely curious about his apparently limited palate in this restaurant full of culinary wonders.

"The steaks," Harper answers for him, rolling her eyes affectionately across the table.

"And the macaroni. And the potatoes," he corrects her, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in what might be the beginning of a smile.

"Oh no, sorry, I missed the sides," she says with a theatrical sigh and laugh, then pushes back her chair. "I need to pee. I'll be right back." She points at me with mock seriousness, eyes narrowing. "And my food better still be here."

"No promises," I tease, and as soon as she walks away, I steal another bite from her plate, unable to resist. The fish really is incredible—I might have food envy despite my perfect pasta.

Dom chuckles beside me, the sound low and warm like honey, vibrating through the small space between us. I twirl another bit of my pasta on my fork, making sure it's a perfect bite with a substantial chunk of lobster, and hold it up toward him impulsively.

"I'm good," he says, but something flickers in his eyes that contradicts his words entirely.

"Please," I beg, leaning closer to him, the wine making me bolder than I'd normally be, my inhibitions softened just enough to be dangerous.

He groans but leans in and opens his mouth. I feed it to him, watching his lips close around my fork with an intensity that makes my stomach flip and heat pool low in my belly. I wait for his reaction, holding my breath without realizing it, suddenly desperate for his approval.