Page 72 of Autumn on My Mind

I put the jacket on.

I am still braless, after all.

Dom relaxes a bit when he turns around and sees me zipping the jacket up, some of the tension leaking out of his frame. He sighs tiredly and gestures to the couch. “Sit,” he says. “We need to talk.”

Such doom-filled words, normally, and yet all I feel at hearing them is a faint sense of relief. “I agree,” I say with a skeptical nod, “but do you want to change first?”

He glances down at his wet clothes, the trail of water he’s left on the floor, and looks faintly surprised to see how waterlogged he still is.

“Yeah,” he says. “I probably should.”

And then—AND THEN—he begins undressing.

Right there, right in front of me, he removes his sweatshirt, letting it slop to the polished concrete floor.

That’s not so bad, I think. Just one layer. It’s not like he’s getting naked⁠—

But then comes the shirt. It’s plastered to his torso, so much that I can see every muscle. They are plentiful, those muscles, but I do not stare, because I am a lady. I just glance casually instead, a little peek from the corner of my eye while I pretend to scratch my head.

When he begins peeling the shirt off, I give up my charade.

“Dom,” I snap at him.

He emerges from the shirt a second later, messy-haired, and raises one brow at me. “What?” he says innocently.

But I swear there’s laughter in his eyes.

I point toward the back of the shop where the bathroom is located, and he shrugs, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

He takes his sweet time finding new clothes to wear, and I have to wonder if a simple cabinet search really causes all that muscle movement in a man’s back.

It’s just...

Here’s the thing. There’s a certain kind of muscular that maintains a perfect balance, and Dom walks that line beautifully. He’s not bodybuilder muscular. He’s not even gym muscular. He’s hard work muscular. The kind that comes from years of applied labor; the kind that made lifting me into his arms seem as easy as breathing.

I grit my teeth and sit down on the couch while Dominic continues to search.

“I refuse to look at you any more,” I tell him, “so you may as well hurry.”

“I assure you, I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean,” he says in an easy voice. “Found it.” He holds up a bundle of clothes, and I roll my eyes as he and his shirtless self weave between the workbenches and table saw and then disappear out of sight, into the bathroom.

I don’t know why I have to force myself not to smile or laugh.

I settle on one end of the couch while he’s gone, staring aimlessly around as I wait. When Dom returns, looking much better in a dry t-shirt and sweatpants, he sits at the other end, leaving a cushion’s length of space between us.

He glances at me, the laughter gone from his eyes. It’s been replaced by something more serious, and my heart sinks.

I guess it’s time to talk.

“Did you mean what you said?” Dom says finally. “That we should let them date?”

No need to specify who they are.

“I—” I begin, but I break off. Because it’s complicated, as things with Alvina always are.

Do I want her to date Dom’s dad? No. Definitely not. It’s viscerally wrong.

But…