Page 17 of You're The One
“You’re impossible,” I groan.
“And you’re a fireball. That’s what I’ll call you from now on.”
“Dominic, I do not want a nickname withballin it.”
“You’d prefer one withspitin it?” He raises a brow.
I regret every choice that brought me to this conversation. “Well, no, but”— I wave a hand, dismissing it—“Ugh. Forget it.”
“La mia piccola fiamma, it is. My little flame.”
At least he finally translated. “I’m notyouranything.”
I stand, intending to rejoin the group, but he grabs my wrist before I can make my escape.
“Wait. We didn’t talk.”
I raise a brow. “Pretty sure that’s what we just did. Granted, it was possibly the least productive conversation I’ve ever had.”
“Sit.” He keeps hold of me and gently urges me into the spot I vacated.
I sigh. “What now?”
“Do you want to stay? And no, we didn’t already cover that,” he quips, reading my mind apparently, “I told you I was keeping you. Now, I’m asking if you want to stay.”
“Oh, so I get a choice?”
“Goddamn it, woman, can you just answer the question?” he grumbles.
I shrug.
He shifts beside me. “I talked to Ryan.”
I wait, not offering anything.
“He had some theories about why you might be here… and none of them involved falling in love.”
I have no clue what Ryan said, but I’d bet whatever it was isn’t far from the truth. Love was far from my reasons for agreeing to this ridiculous show. And if I’d known the man across from me was the one I was supposed tofall in lovewith, I wouldn’t have agreed in the first place. But all I say is, “He’s a smart man.”
“All right.” Dominic’s shoulders rise with a barely-there breath. “One more thing… he asked me to watch out for you. Said you might be going through… something.”
My stomach tightens. Why the hell would Ryan tell him that? How would he even know? I’m not in the habit of dumping my problems on people. Maybe Mom mentioned it—she was the one who caught me mid-spiral last time.
It’s been hours since production took my phone, and I’m feeling the absence. If I had it, I’d text Ryan to mind his own business and stop passing my problems around. Especially to Dominic Fox.
So that’s why he’s even considering keeping me here. Figures. “What, you expecting a heart-to-heart? Want me to spill all my woes? Sorry to disappoint, but that’s not happening,” I mutter.
“Didn’t think so. But I’m here if you ever want to… or if you need something.” He pauses, studying me a little too closely. “You’re not sick, are you?”
Being sick isn’t usually how people describe mental illness. But sometimes, it feels like my brain is infected. Infected with thoughts that burrow deep and buzz beneath my skin. Like those underground bees whose hives thrum quietly, unnoticed until you step on them.
People who haven’t felt the constant hum don’t get it. People like Dominic, who are perpetually happy, can’t possibly understand anxiety and depression. The guy probably doesn’t even have bad days. I bet he’s immune. His life is all sunshine and rainbows.
I want to say yes. Yes, Iamsick. And I want someone to understand what that means.
But instead, I say, “No, I’m fine.”
Fine. God, I hate that word. Probably because it’s the one I use the most. And more often than not, it’s a lie.
