Page 124 of Say My Name

“This is executive leisurewear.”

“That is company property you stole from a charity event.”

“I’m an executive. I’m wearing it during leisure. My description stands.”

His laugh eases the tension in my chest.

I close the door behind him.

Dominic carries the food into my kitchen. He knows which cabinet holds the plates now. He knows where I keep the silverware and that the cloth napkins are for guests while the paper ones beside the refrigerator are what I actually use.

Six months ago, he had never been inside my condo.

Now he opens my refrigerator, frowns at the nearly empty shelf, and takes out two bottles of water without asking.

“You need groceries.”

“I have groceries.”

“You have mustard, half a lemon, and what I sincerely hope is still edible yogurt.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You work for a very demanding man.”

“He’s relentless.”

“I’ve heard he’s handsome.”

“Mostly from him, I assume.”

His mouth curves. “You’re in a good mood.”

He always sees me, and the awareness is both a comfort and a risk.

“I’m hungry.”

“That must be it.”

The look he gives me says he knows better, and I think he does.

We eat at the kitchen island while he tells me Sophie has accused him of cheating during the game at lunch last weekend.

“You did cheat,” I remind him.

“I clarified the rules.”

“After you were losing.”

“That’s when rules require the most scrutiny.”

“She’s five, Dominic,” I say through a laugh, my chest tight with an unnamed warmth at the image of him with our child.

“She’s ruthless. Cliff should be proud.”

I laugh hard enough that I have to put down my fork. Dominic watches me with a soft curve to his mouth, and for a moment, the contract in my locked drawer and the fertility calendar on my phone disappear. Cliff’s best friend is also a man who knows how to make me laugh and looks pleased every time he succeeds. Sitting here with him feels natural enough to make me nervous.

After dinner, he clears the containers while I wipe down the counter. We move around each other without discussion, passing lids and plates between us as if we have done this for years instead of weeks.