Page 63 of Dominance

“No reason.” I can see him bite the inside of his lip until his eyes water. This man is going to make me crack.

He’s also going to make this tolerable.

If I don’t totally insult the woman by laughing in her face.

“So? I ain’t got all day…” She tips one shoulder, fake smiling like she’s just teasing us.

New York charm, huh?

“Well, the venue is?—”

The phone rings at the counter. Then again before I can finish my sentence. No one appears to get it by the fourth ring. “Are you going to?—”

“Ugh. Aunt Gina, phone! What the hell?” Peggy heads into the back room, ignoring the phone.

So, we sit there for a few moments, awkwardly looking around.

Adriano shrugs at me.

“Maybe we should just?—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” a grumbling, muffled voice chimes in, shouldering the door open and rushing to the front counter. “Sandra’s Bridal Boutique, this is Sandra. I know, I apologize, I was out to lun?—”

The dark-haired woman, pretty in her mid-twenties stops, her expression souring suddenly. “Listen here bucko, you canceled on me last minute, no warning. My people showed up to an empty lot in the Bronx because you—what did you say?! How about this, you signed the contract, fuck-stick. No refunds!”

She slams the receiver down, her chest heaving.

Right before turning to us and smiling sweetly. “Hi! You must be Gloria Abate! I’m Sandra. You two look like you could use some help.”

“We needsomuch help,” I admit, smiling despite my nerves.

“Good. But first, would you like some champagne?”

Something about her, the way she carries herself, despite the wild antics, instantly endears her to me. She’s vibrant. Honest. Pretty.

And savage as fuck.

Just the kind of planner I need to help me make the hard calls.

The next hour flies by, the three of us chatting, laughing, drinking.

And actually making good decisions.

“Peggy? She’s my cousin’s wife. Unbearable bitch.” Sandra explains after Peggy makes another appearance, throwing a fit about Sandra “stealing her customers.”

“I heard that!”

“Go home Peggy!”

“I’m tellin’ your mother about this!” Peggy shouts, slamming out through the back door. Sandra just rolls her eyes and makes a gesture of strangling someone.

“See, I got guilt-tripped into giving her a job. She’s only supposed to answer the phone and make reservations. My momma Gina makes a lot of the dresses, does the fittings. She’s the best designer I’ve ever seen, no joke.”

“I can…see that,” I marvel, flipping through their catalog of dresses. Pausing on one in particular, my eyes trace the lace, the bodice, the train. “Gorgeous…”

And the signature at the bottom.

Sandra Holcom.

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