Page 62 of The Best Wrong Move

I grab what’s left of the wine bottle and my glass from the counter. Then I pull my silky kaftan back over my head and wrap the blanket around my shoulders, not bothering to put anything on underneath.

When I walk outside, the view hits me again like it’s my first time seeing it. The long teak wood table overlooking the garden, the shimmering diamond-filled bay below. I take a seat in one of the dining chairs and lean back, resting my head against the tall backrest, feeling dizzy with happiness. After a full day of writing and another top fuck of my life, I know I’ve hit the jackpot winding up here. Finding him.

My head is screaming that it’s way too early to feel this strongly about him, but my heart is whispering that I must be falling in love. I fit so perfectly in his arms that I can’t imagine being anywhere else as long as I live.

This feeling of peace and serenity is going to be hard to find back home, among the sirens and noisy bustle of the city. It’s not just the palm trees swaying in the gentle breeze, or the water glittering in the distance. It’s Dom. The way I feel perfectly myself with him. Like I have nothing to hide when we’re together. Free to be myself. Imperfect, closeted skeletons and all.

“You were ravenous when you arrived.” He’s suddenly behind me. “I can only imagine how hungry you are after that.”

“Me?” I laugh. “You just gave yourself a serious cardio workout in there.”

He’s holding a tray of seafood, along with his wine glass from earlier. There’s a post-sex glow radiating from his skin that makes me want to do it all over again if this is what he looks like afterward. A little flushed, like he just got back from a hard run.

“That was just a warm-up.” He narrows his eyes. “Don’t tempt me intoreallybreaking a sweat before you get the chance to fill up. You’re going to need to refuel.”

I grin. “I like the sound of that.”

He sets the tray down and starts heaping our plates with the most incredible looking seafood I’ve ever seen.

* * *

By the end, I’m happily sprawled across cloud nine. Shrimp, king crab legs, and Wagyu medallions seared to perfection on the grill. It was just as good as the fanciest meals I’ve had back in New York. Maybe better since I got to enjoy it with him.

I finally push myself back from the table. “I’m going to kiss whoever gave you cooking lessons.”

“My father would probably love that, but my mother, not so much.” He pretends to look appalled. “And neither would I.”

I lean over and kiss him.

We’ve already watched another spectacular fuchsia-streaked sunset while we ate, and now we’re sitting under a blanket of Edison bulbs mixed with the stars.

“Your dad must have been a Michelin-star chef.”

Our first bottle of white wine turned into a second about an hour ago. I am deliciously tipsy, enjoying Dom’s company while listening to the sound of the waves crashing ashore in the distance. A faint light from a boat on the surface of the water catches my eye. I watch it bob up and down, unable to imagine what it would be like to float out there right now, surrounded by nothing but dark waves and the creatures swimming below.

Quinton’s outdoor patio is heaven on earth. The table is sandwiched between two blazing gas firepits, overlooking a full moon that cascades across the ocean as far as I can see toward the horizon. The palm trees swaying gently below us make everything feel serene. Solar lights line each pathway, highlighting the palm trees’ shadows as they sway in the salty breeze. Probably still hovering around seventy-five degrees out. Warm enough to not need a sweater quite yet. I could stay right here forever and it would never grow old.

“No, my father definitely didn’t have a Michelin star.” He pours himself another splash of wine. My glass doesn’t need it quite yet.

“Well, even without one, he must have taught you well,” I insist, gently trying to coax out more stories about his life growing up in California. I want to know more, and how it all led him to this moment, an ocean away from it all.

“True.” He smiles over at me, like he wants to say more. “We were pretty spoiled growing up, especially in the kitchen.”

I laugh. “Don’t tell me your dad is Gordon Ramsay.” I have no idea who his father is, but nothing is off the table, considering his brother.

“No.” He laughs, finally relenting. “Dad owned Paramour Studios.”

“What?” I deadpan, trying not to gape. The hits keep coming. I stare at Dom, my heart pounding. He’s so humble and down to earth. I never would have guessed that two men in his family are Hollywood royalty.

“My mother is Royce Carsen. Dad fell in love with her on set in the late eighties. That’s also how Quinton got his start. He began tagging along with Dad to do films when he was — gosh, around four years old. Old enough to sit still and know when to be quiet while he got to watch the magic of a movie set unfold. He learned the basics of directing when most other kids were learning how to play t-ball. Runs in his blood now.”

“And you were never into that?” I study his face for any of the tension he appeared to have earlier.

“I rarely talk about this stuff.” He shifts on his chair. “I usually try to keep my personal life separate from all that.”

“Why?” I genuinely want to know. I feel like I’m finally peeling back the layers of his life. Which, until tonight, have been mostly a mystery to me. “Don’t they count as your personal life too?”

“Money and fame have this weird effect on people. I’ve been burned so many times when people find out I have some heavy hitters in my family. It’s happened my whole life. I was engaged at one point.” His eyes shift to mine, looking slightly embarrassed — pained, even.

---