Celeste didn't see Dominic again for three days. Three whole days. She hated to admit this, but she didn't need the break.
Three days was a reasonable amount of time for a girl to breathe, pretend she wasn't spiraling, and alphabetize every shelf in the store twice. It was also just enough time for her to convince herself that the kiss had been a blip. A heat-of-the-moment, alcohol-induced lapse in sanity. A thing that could be forgotten, like… a parking ticket.
Surprisingly, she hasn't heard from Landon. She rolled her eyes at his memory. He would surely rant to all their mutual friends right now, but she doesn't care.
Dominic Cross was carved into her memory with terrifying clarity. She had always admired older men but never dreamt of a romantic tanglement with one of them.
His voice and the way it dipped into her spine like velvet laced with sharp edges was heaven.
That look in his eyes when he said, "You're not a mess."
God. She was afflicted. Celeste buried her face in her pillow that morning, and released a strangled scream.
She was not going to think about it anymore.
....
By late afternoon, she had almost succeeded.
The bookstore was quiet, with warm light spilling through the high windows, the kind of silence that made people whisper instinctively. Celeste was restocking the poetry section and humming under her breath, very proud of herself for thinking about anything except Dominic's mouth.
Then the door chimed. She didn't look up. Not until she heard a voice that was entirely too calm for her nervous system.
"Pushkin?" he said behind her. "I always figured you for Rilke."
She nearly dropped the entire stack of books in her arms. Her heart actually stopped and restarted like it had just skipped a beat and needed time to catch up.
"You have got to stop doing that," she hissed, turning. "What are you, a literary assassin? Just appear behind people and judge their reading preferences?"
Dominic, in a charcoal sweater that looked offensively good on him, stepped closer. His eyes flicked to the title in her hands.
"I don't judge," he said. "I observe."
"You haunt," she corrected.
He smiled. Like he had all the time in the world to get under her skin. She couldn't believe this was the man she was once scared of. Could it be that everything Landon had said about him was a lie?
"Are you stalking me?" she added, arms crossed, which unfortunately only made her look defensive and flustered, not intimidating.
"This is still two blocks from my apartment," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Besides, the coffee shop next door makes the only decent cortado in a five-mile radius."
Celeste narrowed her eyes. "You came here… for coffee?"
He tilted his head. "And maybe a little Pushkin." He nodded thoughtfully.
God, his voice. How was it legal for someone to sound like that? Rich and smooth and completely devoid of guilt.
Celeste turned back to the shelf just to get away from his eyes. Her hands were shaking. She prayed he didn't notice. Or maybe she wanted him to notice. She wasn't sure anymore.
"Look," she said, her voice unsteady, "about the kiss—"
"That you started," he reminded her gently. He raised a brow when their eyes met, like he wasn't guilty.
Her cheeks burned. "That we both didn't stop." She defended herself.
He didn't deny it.
Celeste stared at the spine of a poetry collection like it held answers to all her problems. "I don't want things to be weird."
Dominic stepped closer. Once again, he didn't touch her but he was close enough for her to feel the electricity humming between them like an invisible wire.
"It's only weird if we pretend it didn't happen," he said softly. He wasn't closer to her because of the kiss. He was closer to know why the kiss affected him.
She hated how her heart reacted. How it kicked against her ribs like it wanted out.
"Are you saying we should talk about it?" she asked, voice cracking slightly.
"I'm saying you kissed me," he said, "and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it."
Her breath caught.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't flirting. He looked… honest. Honest in a way that made her legs feel like they didn't belong to her anymore.
"That night," he added, "you looked at me like I wasn't supposed to be touched. And then you touched me anyway."
Celeste flushed to her ears. "I wasn't thinking clearly."
"That's the thing," he said, stepping even closer, "neither was I."
For a second, it felt like the air itself leaned in. None of them breathed or blinked. The world stopped for them.
Lydia cleared her throat behind them when she saw what was going on. A loud clap followed when none of them bothered to break eye contact.
Celeste jumped like she'd been caught stealing. Dominic, of course, looked completely unbothered.
"I'm just saying," Lydia called out from the register, "if you're going to kiss again, maybe move to the Romance aisle so the rest of us don't get confused."
Celeste groaned and practically threw herself behind the nearest shelf. "I hate everyone."
Dominic chuckled and leaned toward the shelf where she hid like a wounded animal. "You okay back there?" he asked like it was supposed to be a joke.
"I will file a restraining order in sonnets," she muttered.
"You'd have to be as wealthy and influential as I am to be able to restrain me," he said.
"Don't tempt me," she snapped, her heart still hammering. "Also, don't brag,"
Dominic didn't push. He straightened, slid his hands into his pockets, and said, "I'll be around."
Then he walked out. He left her breathless and red-faced as she clutched Pushkin like it was the only thing holding her upright.
Lydia popped up beside her with a knowing smirk. "So… when's the wedding?"
Celeste groaned and dropped her forehead onto the nearest shelf.
"Don't," she muttered.
Lydia grinned. "Too late. You're already doomed."