We drink too much to drive. The bartender seems unconcerned about overserving us, and I put too much stock into Mr. Responsible Asshole eventually cutting me off. I was sure Dom would turn down the first shot I ordered for him.
If not the first, then definitely the second.
No way would he throw back the third…
The only thing that stops the steady flow of beer, gin, and tequila is closing time.
We stumble our way to a motel that was obviously meant to serve summer beach guests rather than winter funeral attendees. Everything is painted aqua blue and covered in seashells and draped in fishing nets.
For a brief moment, my alcohol-soaked brain panics at the thought of sharing a room with Dom. Then he asks the front desk worker for two rooms, and I realize we’re not at a roadside inn in some historical romance novel, so of course there’s going to be multiple rooms available.
When the young guy glances between the two of us with a skeptical expression as he hands over our key cards, I can tell what’s going on in his mind.
Why are these two wasted people springing for an extra room when they’re obviously going to hook up?
I have too much gin in me to let him continue thinking such an incorrect thought.
Leaning an elbow on the desk, I extend my body over the surface and get ready to blow his mind.
“He’s divorced.” I jab a finger Dom’s way. “I’m single.” I point to my chest. “But we’re not going to sleep together or have sex. Because I hate him, and his face, and his pineapple boxers. Boxers, I might add, that my brother gave him. But in, like, a totally platonic way. I think. Holy shit.” I smack a palm against Dom’s massive chest. “Did you hook up with Josh?”
Dom’s hand covers mine, holding it captive as he stares at the ceiling and exhales a deep breath that sounds suspiciously like What the fuck?
Ha! Irresponsible language. A point for me.
“No, Maddie. Josh and I never hooked up. We were just friends.”
The guy sounds entirely too sober for someone who had four beers, three shots, and no food.
“Well, good. Only one Sanderson stain to your name.” I tug my hand free of his, the maneuver surprisingly difficult, then snatch my room key card.
“Maddie.” Dom’s voice sounds growly. He’s probably just mad that I’m airing his dirty laundry—his one mistake—in front of this random motel worker.
“Dominic,” I mock with a deep tone as I stroll out of the office. At least, I attempt to stroll, but the ground keeps rocking beneath my feet, so I do more of a swaying walk with the occasional dance move thrown in, so no one knows how unsteady I actually am.
Outside, a chill breeze pushes humid, salty air through my damp dress, and I look forward to peeling off every piece of clothing I have on and standing in a hot shower for a good hour.
“You missed your room.” The gruff voice coaxes me to turn around, and I find Dom not far behind me, his focus on a vending machine.
“How do you know? You’re not even looking at me.”
Which is good. I don’t want him to look at me.
“Because our rooms are that way.” He points to a stretch of doors on the other side of the office.
“You could’ve told me sooner,” I mutter, retracing my not-so-straight steps. “I hate hotels. And motels. Every room is the same. A copy you can’t tell apart. They’re all lifeless.”
On my way to my door, I veer off course and intentionally stumble into Dom, shoulder to shoulder, so I can stare through the glass at the snacks, too. The colorful wrappers inform me that I’m hungry, but when I pull out my credit card, ready to blow my life savings on gummy worms, I realize that the machine doesn’t have a card reader.
“This is bullshit.” Gesturing toward the dollar bill slot, I glance up to include Dom in my commiserating and maybe enjoy one of his disappointed frowns. Instead, I watch as he opens a leather wallet to pull out some crisp dollar bills.
“You carry cash? Are you kidding me? Who carries cash anymore? Are you ninety? Do you pay for your groceries with a check? You had exact change for the tollbooths, didn’t you?”
Dom lets me rant as he inserts his archaic money into the machine. He presses a series of buttons, and when I see what falls I let out a groan.
“Peanuts? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” One advantage I have on the six-foot, however-many-unnecessary-inches man is that I can get low faster than he can. I drop to my knees, plunge my hand into the food dispenser, and steal his legumes.
“Maddie.” His voice holds a warning I refuse to heed.
“Dominic Dickbag Perry. You’ve got rows of delicious candy and chips and the cash to buy it all and you pick peanuts. Like some serial killer.”
“Peanuts have protein.”
“Try again,” I demand, poking an aggressive finger against the glass.
“Give me my peanuts.” He makes to grab them, but I step back fast, out of his reach.
“No!”
Seeing his intent to try again, I shove the bag down the neckline of my dress with a triumphant “Hah!”
Mr. Responsible Asshole would never violate the sanctity of my clothes without my permission.
Unfortunately, my alcohol-infused brain temporarily forgot exactly how dresses work, so almost immediately, the peanuts fall out the bottom of my skirt as if I’m a giant bird popping out eggs on the sidewalk.
After a beat of hesitation, I drop down, sitting cross-legged on my newly laid peanut bag.
“You’re sitting on my food,” Dom says.
“You get them back when you pick a proper snack from the machine.” I point to the collection of deliciousness he blatantly ignored on his first go. “This is a cognitive ability test.”
Dom watches me for a stretch of time that seems too long. Probably because my ass doesn’t like conforming to the shape of hard, cold concrete and a lumpy nut bag.
Finally, he turns and rests his head on the glass of the vending machine again, contemplating the array of options.
“If you pick a granola bar,” I warn him, “I will call the police and tell them that you’ve violated that vending machine multiple times without an ounce of remorse.”
Dom flicks me a side-eye glare, then inserts more money and presses a series of numbers. I hear the heavy thunk as his selection drops. When the man squats to retrieve the food, my eyes accidentally find their way to the perfect shape of his ass encased in those formfitting dress pants. Not an imperfect grief crease to be seen.
Definitely not proper funeral attire.
“Here. This pass muster?” Dom straightens and tosses a neon green bag into my lap.
The familiar snack sparks a nostalgic flame in my heart, warming me from the inside.
“Sour Patch Kids! These are my favorite.”
I hug the bag against my chest like it’s a teddy bear.
“I know,” Dom says, and his confidence grates.
“Fuck you. You did not.”
He slips his hands into his pockets, staring down at me with an unreadable expression. “You like to pretend they’re pirates and you’re the kraken and that you’ve demolished their ship and are eating them alive.”
“Well, that woman—whoever you’re talking about—sounds incredibly creative.” I tear the bag open, pluck out a little red guy, and hold him up between us. “Arg! Please spare me, matey! I’ll give ye all my buried treasure!”
Then I chomp down on him whole, shivering in delight at the sour tang on my tongue.
Dom watches me, his lips pressed in a tight line.
“Try it.” I hold out one of my precious treats. But only one of the orange ones. Dom doesn’t deserve a red or green or yellow.
I expect him to sigh, or scold me, or ask for his peanuts again. Instead, Dom crouches in front of me until our faces are unnervingly close together. Then he opens his mouth in an invitation.
Scared of losing a finger, I cautiously place the candy on his broad tongue, then yank my hand away. Dom holds my eyes as he chews slowly and swallows. Then—not an ounce of inflection in his voice—he speaks.
“Arg, matey.”
Damn him.
A laugh bursts out of me, drunken giggles quaking through my body at the ever-serious Dom Perry’s terrible pirate impression.
As I crumble under my hilarity, the man’s face slowly transforms. A small tick at first, in the corner of his mouth. Then both corners.
Suddenly, he’s smiling.
Dominic Perry grins at me, wide and devastating. And so unexpected that my body moves before I know what I’m doing.
I kiss his smile, greedy for the memory. Aching for the time when his smiles were mine.
Craving the time when he kissed me and I believed he meant it.
Desperate to return to a moment when I was happy.
When Dom’s mouth is on mine, I don’t care that my ass is freezing from the cold ground, and my brain is whirling from too much gin, and my chest is in tatters because my brother is gone.
When I taste Dom’s warm mouth, feel the silky tangle of his hair fisted in my fingers, hear his deep groan as the noise vibrates down my throat and through my body, I’m nineteen and hopeful again. The world is only a little bit shitty in a way I’m used to. And there’s a lovely bright spot that is this man who has his arms wrapped around me, my body pulled in tight to his broad chest.
The moment disappears as quick as sugar on my tongue, with Dom prying us apart, his unyielding hands on my shoulders to hold me at bay.
“Maddie,” he rasps. “We can’t.”
But that’s a lie.
We can. Easily.
He’s divorced. I’m single. And my brother—who may or may not have lodged a protest against his best friend hooking up with his sister—is gone.
We can.
Dom should’ve been honest and said the words he actually meant.
Maddie. I don’t want you. I never did.
Silly me forgot. The alcohol eased my protective shields, but a sober wave brought on by rejection helps them slam back into place.
“Obviously. We’re not going to do anything.” I swat Dom’s hands away, realizing he pulled me to my feet during the lip lock.
Good. That’ll make it easier to get away. I dodge around him and power walk toward my room—I can read the number clearly now.
“Maddie, wait.” His heavy footsteps follow me, but I don’t look back.
Instead, I focus on properly swiping my key card as my mouth goes on defense. “Did you think that meant something?” I force a laugh that comes out too sharp. “No. See, I just realized I’ve never tossed anyone’s salad before. Wanted to know what it was like to kiss an asshole.” The door pops open, and I tilt my head over my shoulder, managing a smirk as I meet his dark eyes. “Learned my lesson. It’s shit.”
Then I slam the door in Dom’s face. Lock it. Throw the dead bolt.
I ignore the knocking and him calling my name as I rush to the bathroom. My knees hit the tiles hard, and I barely manage to get the seat cover raised before I throw up every trace of the night.
All the gin I downed. The swallow of IPA in a toast to my brother. My one measly piece of candy. The drop of seawater I brought to my lips. The little butterflies that tried to struggle to life when Dom smiled at me.
All of it comes spilling out my throat in a sickly yellow bile revealing the truth of today.
Nothing about these last few hours was beautiful or life-changing.
This was just a new version of the same old disappointment.