Page 56 of You're The One
Letting someone else carry a piece of it feels more uncomfortable than carrying it all myself.
“Nothing. I’m sorry. I’m fine.”
Dominic tears the straw wrapper into tiny pieces as his jaw ticks. He looks like he wants to argue but stays quiet, brooding.
Yep. I’ve officially ruined his mood, and I weirdly hate that I have. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him like this… down. It’s always struck me as unnatural, maybe even a bit unfair, considering I’m someone who struggles almost daily. At one point, I would have reveled in ruining his day, but now, it throws me off.
“Fine,” he grunts, and before I can stop him, Dominic grabs my drink. “Just a sip.”
Have I driven him to drink? Caffeine, but still, that can’t be a good sign.
When I don’t put up a fight like I did with the ice cream, he raises a brow. “Oh? Not worried about my germs anymore?”
I hadn’t even thought about the possibility of him kissing his date last night until now.
“Should I be? Did you kiss her?”
“Why?” he asks, watching me too closely. “Would that bother you?”
“No. Of course not,” I huff.
He exhales through his nose and leans back in the booth, fingers tapping against the table.
“She did,” he admits, barely audible over the whirl of a coffee grinder. “She kissed me.”
He looks down, tearing the straw wrapper into even smaller pieces. When he glances back up, his expression is unreadable.
And yeah, there’s that knot in my chest, pulled too tight and pulsing with every uneven beat. But I don’t let it show.
He’s supposed to kiss the people he’s dating.
It’s a good thing.
“That’sgreat,” I say, aiming for breezy.
He pauses, his frozen hot chocolate hovering inches from his mouth. “Is it?” The challenge is clear in his eyes, even as his voice stays light.
“Yep.” I take a sip of my drink, not thinking about germs, only about keeping my hands busy.
He shakes his head. “I’m sending her home this week.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” The words are hard to get out. “The girls are already talking about the kissing curse.”
His brow furrows. “Come again?”
“Apparently, when you kiss a girl?—”
“For the record, they’ve kissed me,” he cuts in. “Not the other way around.”
“Right, well, the theory is that it’s a kiss of death. If they kiss you, they get sent home. That’s why I figured you didn’t?—”
“She kissedme,” he repeats, more insistent.
“Anyway,” I continue, “you might see a drop-off in smooches. So maybe don’t send her home. You know, to break the curse.”
He stares at me over his drink.
“Right,” he says at last, though his voice lacks conviction.
