Page 81 of The Summer We Lie

"All good choices," he says with a smile that makes my stomach flip just as Harper walks back in.

"Okay, who wants blankets and pillows?" she asks, carrying an armful.

"I'll take them," I say, reaching out.

She tosses pillows in the middle of the couch then throws me a blanket before hopping onto the couch herself. She lays down, resting her head on a pillow in the center. I do the same, laying my head next to hers and pulling the blanket over me. Dom sits at my other side, his presence warm and solid beside me.

"Okay, we ready?" Dom asks, finger hovering over the remote.

"Yep," Harper and I say in unison, and the movie starts playing again.

I settle in, cozy under the blanket. It feels strangely like family, this moment—Harper on one side and Dom on the other. For someone who spends most of her time worrying about money and responsibilities, this moment of normalcy feels almost unreal.

And that money sitting in my account? I still don't know what to do about it. But for now, I let myself forget about everything except the movie on the screen and the two people sharing this space with me.

We're over halfway through the movie when I hear Harper's breathing deepen beside me. I lift my head slightly and peek over at her—she's fast asleep, face relaxed and peaceful against the pillow.

"She's sleeping already?" Dom asks, his voice low.

"Yep," I say, smiling at my best friend's ability to fall asleep anywhere. "I mean, she did have a big day of shopping."

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "Yeah, I guess she did." He turns his attention back to the movie.

I watch him for a minute, the way the screen's flickering light plays across his strong features. God, I love his laugh. That deep, genuine sound that seems to come from somewhere real inside him.

When I finally force my attention back to the movie instead of the man beside me, I feel my blanket shift. I glance over—Dom's slipped his hand under my blanket, though his eyes remain fixed on the screen. I turn back, trying to focus on the film just as his fingers brush my ankle.

With gentle pressure, he pulls both my legs onto his lap, making sure to keep the blanket covering me. For a second, I hold my breath, not knowing what he's going to do. But he just starts rubbing my feet with strong, sure hands, his thumbs pressing into my arches in slow, deliberate circles.

I release the breath I've been holding and try to concentrate on the movie, but it's practically impossible with his hands on me. He works his way up to my calves, kneading the muscles there with just the right amount of pressure. He never goes too high—just my feet and lower legs—but even that innocent touch sends waves of warmth through my entire body.

Harper sleeps on, oblivious, while Dom's thumbs trace patterns on my skin beneath the blanket. The movie plays on, but I couldn't tell you what happens in the last half hour. All I know is the feel of his hands, warm and strong against my skin.

When the credits finally roll, we stay put for a few minutes, neither of us moving. Dom's hand rests on my ankle, his thumb making small circles against my skin. Finally, he eases my legs off his lap and stands, then reaches down to pull me up beside him. He leans over to adjust Harper's blanket, tucking it more securely around her.

Taking my hand, he leads me out of the theater room. His palm is warm against mine, our fingers intertwined as we walk down the hall.

"Do you need anything from your room?" he asks when we reach the main hallway.

"I don't think so," I say, confused about what exactly we're doing. Is he taking me to his room? Just to talk or...?

"Go up to my room. I'll be there in a minute," he says, his voice quiet but firm.

"Okay," I reply, turning toward the stairs while he walks across the living room—toward my room, I'm guessing.

I climb the stairs to the third floor, my heart pounding harder with each step. At the top, there's a big open area set up like a living room—leather couches, a massive TV, built-in bookshelves filled with architecture books and novels. At the far end stands a set of beautiful double doors.

I take a deep breath and push them open.

Dom's bedroom is nothing like I expected yet exactly what I should have imagined. The space is massive but not showy—all clean lines and muted colors. A California king bed dominates one wall, covered in what looks like ridiculously expensive dark gray bedding. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the opposite wall, offering what must be an incredible view during daylight.

An entire section of the room serves as a home office, with a sleek desk and multiple monitors. There's a sitting area with two leather armchairs and a small table between them. Everything feels intentional, nothing out of place.

Two more doors lead off the main room—one likely a bathroom, the other probably a closet.

What strikes me most is how the space feels both luxurious and understated at the same time. No flashy art or status symbols—just quality materials, perfect proportions, and a sense of calm that must help him think. It's so... Dom. Controlled. Expensive but not showy. Nothing unnecessary.

I run my fingers over the edge of his dresser—solid wood, not veneer. Even in this private space, no shortcuts.