Page 89 of Autumn on My Mind

“I would have opened the medicine cabinet, if you had one.”

His lips twitch, but the expression fades. “So,” he says, clearly changing the subject. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

“Nope,” I say, because I know exactly what he’s referencing. I gesture at the door. “You can see yourself out.”

But he shows no signs of moving, much less leaving. “Middle school, huh?”

“High school,” I correct him quickly. “Not middle school. High school.”

“My name in your notebooks?” His voice is casual, but his expression isn’t, and I can see what he’s trying to do.

He’s giving me space to respond however I want, to take this conversation in whichever direction I feel most comfortable. Bantering and joking, or simple and frank.

I choose neither. I just keep my mouth closed until he sighs.

“You could have said something.”

“When?” I say with a snort of laughter. “In high school?”

He shrugs, tilting his head. “Sure.”

“I don’t date smokers,” I say with a sniff, and a little smile tugs at his lips.

It fades, though, as he continues to look at me. He inhales deeply, his broad shoulders expanding, his eyes regretful. Then he exhales roughly. “The other night.” He pauses, his gaze falling away. “I accused you of not—not loving me. Of not being serious about our relationship.” He swallows. “I shouldn’t have said that stuff.”

“You didn’t know,” I say, uncomfortable now. “It was normal for you to think the things you did.”

He hums, an unconvinced sound. “Maybe.”

Then he pushes away from the cabinet as his arms fall to his sides. He tucks his hands into his pockets, drifting slowly toward me, his gaze questioning.

I push away my sudden nervousness and stand my ground, once again reminding myself that there’s no need to get worked up. There’s no need for my pulse to skip or my heart to race.

Dom approaches with easy steps, but his presence is anything but casual. His gaze is locked with mine, no hope of escaping, and when he reaches me, he leans down.

For one wild, absurd second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But his face tilts only enough to take a deep breath.

“More pumpkin pie,” he murmurs in my ear.

“Did you expect something else?”

He begins to step backward, but I reach out and tug on his shirt. Two can play this game, and if my pulse is thundering through my veins without permission, his should be doing the same.

He stumbles forward, his eyes widening as he bumps into me. I go up on my tiptoes and inhale deeply in the crook of his neck, discovering a scent so familiar I could cry, or smile, or both. Laced with the faint aroma of wood shavings, though, is the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and nutmeg.

“You used my soap again,” I breathe before letting go of him.

“Yeah, well, I told you,” he says in a hoarse voice as he looks down at me. Challenge dances in his expression as his gaze flits over my face. “If it’s in my shower, it belongs to me.” He tilts his head. “Or did you forget?”

“I remembered.”

His eyes drop to my mouth, so briefly I might be imagining it. “Good.”

I lick my lips, self-conscious of his attention—but when I do, heat flares to life in his eyes. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and for a second he looks torn, but then he wrenches his gaze away and turns on his heel, heading for the door.

He stops right as he’s about to leave. “I am sorry,” he says roughly.

“I know,” I reply.