The Ex Talk(61)

I want to press for more information on when, exactly, I’ll be in a position to enjoy his cooking skills, but I’m not ready for the real world. I fill Steve’s food bowl and try not to think about the wet T-shirt contest Dominic is currently winning. “I should shower first. Wash off all this nature.”

“Sure,” he says. “I’ll take the downstairs, you take the upstairs?”

It should feel good to get a break from him. Some space for my mind to untangle. Except once I’m under the hot water, attempting to relax, I can’t keep from imagining Dominic doing the same thing downstairs, running his hands through his hair and down his chest and along other choice body parts. The jokes he made today, the things we said last night . . . we’re closer than we’ve ever been, the charge between us more electric.

I wrap my hair in a towel and spend far too long deciding what to wear. Ultimately, I settle on leggings and a boatneck tee, forgoing makeup since he’s already seen me without it.

When I reach the kitchen, he’s at the counter, chopping vegetables from the farmers’ market while oil sizzles in a pan on the stove. His back muscles flex against the gray T-shirt he’s wearing, his hair damp and curling at the ends. He must have brought his regular soap and shampoo because there’s that scent I’ve come to associate with him.

“Pasta primavera,” he says, dropping broccoli and peppers into the pan. “Slightly more advanced.”

“Anything that involves more than one pot and no recipe is impressive to me.” The sight and scent of him have turned me to overcooked spaghetti.

When I spot two glasses of wine waiting on the table, my heart beats triple time in my chest. This is Dominic Yun, arrogant cohost, too tall for his own good, who set this up for us. Dominic, who comforted my terrified dog. Dominic, who spilled his secrets to me last night and encouraged me to do the same.

Who kissed me and asked if we could forget about it.

It’s our last night on the island, and I can’t bear to later get in bed next to him without touching him. No more pretending this isn’t something I’ve wanted since we started The Ex Talk. I need to know it isn’t one-sided.

“We’ve been honest with each other, right?” I say to his back. “This whole weekend?”

“Right.” He adds squash, zucchini, garlic.

“I know we were supposed to forget what happened after the bar.” My pulse is roaring in my ears, louder than the rain outside. “But . . . I haven’t.”

Finally, he turns away from the counter, facing me. I didn’t know sweatpants could be sexy, but that’s the only way to describe how they hang on his hips. “I haven’t, either,” he says after a pause. “I haven’t even tried.”

I’m not sure if I’m more relieved or turned on. “Even though you wanted to pretend it didn’t happen?” My voice is barely a whisper. I curse myself as I ask it, but I have to know.

“It seemed like it would be easier.”

“Has it been? Easier?”

A wry smile. “Sometimes,” he says, and there are only a thousand ways I could interpret that. He glances toward the sautéing vegetables, gives them a stir.

“If we’re really supposed to be bonding this weekend, getting to know everything about each other . . . maybe we should know what it feels like for real. Sober.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“No?” My heart drops to the floor. I’ve never been able to read him, but I didn’t expect him to shoot me down like that.

“If I kissed you again,” he says, stepping closer, an intensity in his gaze I’ve never seen before, “it wouldn’t be for the show, or for research, or for any reason other than that I wanted to.”

Oh. I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep myself upright. I’m not sure what the rules are now. The line between reality and fabrication is smudged, blurred, stamped out completely.

“Dominic.” I try to put a question mark at the end of his name, but it comes out breathy and needy. If he doesn’t touch me in the next few seconds, I might explode.

He must hear that neediness in my voice because he switches off the stove and almost closes the space between us, a few inches between his chest and mine. I want to devour each one of his labored breaths. When he looks down at me, there’s none of the ego I used to see. Eyes dark, mouth slightly parted—maybe this is the expression I haven’t been able to interpret. His hair is damp and messy, and I’ve just decided that is exactly the way I like it. I’ll like it even more when it’s between my fingers and brushing across my stomach, my thighs.

He lifts his hand, his thumb landing on my cheekbone, skimming across it before sliding into my wet hair. “I’d want to remember every detail. The way you taste. The way you smell. The sounds you’d make.”

At that, I let out an involuntary whimper. It’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me, and if I were able to speak, I’d tell him I wanted to learn his sounds, too.

“Shay. God. Do you have any idea—” He breaks off, like he’s too overcome by want to finish the sentence. It’s powerful, the realization that you can steal words from someone like that.

A crash of thunder rocks the house, but I don’t flinch. I am only want and need and the spaces he’s touching me. His other hand moves to my waist, where I can feel the press of each fingertip through the fabric of my shirt.