Page 47 of Love He Denied
"The car. The one with no AC. It was a 'ninety-three Buick LeSabre. Maroon. The tape deck only worked on one side." Her father's voice was rough. "I drove that car for eleven years. Charlie used to fall asleep in the back seat with her feet on the window."
Charlotte's hand found Dominic's under the table. His fingers closed around hers.
"She was the happiest kid," her father said. "Every morning, she'd come downstairs and tell me about her dreams. Every single morning. Long, detailed stories about flying dogs and castles made of pancakes. She'd sit at the counter in her pajamas and talk for twenty minutes, and I'd stand there with my coffee and listen to every word, because—" His voice broke. He cleared his throat. "Because that's what you do. When someone gives you themselves like that. You listen.” He paused before continuing. “You hurt my girl. You hurt her in front of everyone. I sat there and I couldn't do anything about it, and that — that was the worst day of my life. Because a father's supposed to protect his kid, and I couldn't protect her from you."
"I know," Dominic said. "I'm sorry."
"I don't forgive you." Her father held his gaze. "Not yet. Maybe not for a long time. Hell, maybe not ever. But my daughter tells me you're trying, and Charlie's the best judge ofcharacter I know. So I'm going to watch. And if you hurt her again?—"
"You won't need to finish that sentence."
"I'll finish it anyway. If you hurt her again, there won't be a building tall enough to hide behind. We clear?"
"We're clear."
Her father nodded and picked up his fork. "This is good lasagna," he said to her mother.
"It's always good lasagna," her mother said, wiping her eyes.
"It's the best lasagna," Charlotte said. Her voice came out thick and wet and she didn't care.
They stayed for dessert. The cannoli were good, Rosario's didn't disappoint. Her mother made coffee, and her father showed Dominic the backyard where the tomato plants were coming in. Charlotte watched them through the kitchen window: her father pointing at the garden beds, Dominic nodding, hands in his pockets. Her father said something she couldn't hear, and Dominic laughed — a short, surprised laugh — and her father's mouth twitched. A near smile.
“Dominic is different," her mother said beside her, drying a dish. "From the wedding. He's different."
"Yeah," Charlotte said. "He is."
"Your father will come around. He just needs time."
"I know."
Her mother set the dish down. She looked at her daughter with those searching eyes, the ones that saw everything Charlotte tried to hide. "Are you happy, baby?”
Charlotte thought about it. "I'm getting there," she said.
Her mother kissed her forehead. "That's a better answer than last time."
Dominic drove her home. They didn't talk much, the evening had used up all their words. But the silence between them was comfortable, lived-in.
He parked outside her building and walked her to the door.
"Your father's terrifying," he said.
"He's five-foot-nine. You tower over him.”
"Height is irrelevant. That man could end me with a look."
She laughed. His blue eyes were close, warm. Charlotte stopped laughing and kissed him. She kissed him with both hands on his face, her thumbs on his jaw.
Dominic’s hands went to her waist, her hips, pulling her against him. His heart hammered through his shirt, the composure he'd held for two hours finally breaking open against her mouth.
She pulled back. His breathing was ragged. His hands were still on her hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of her jeans.
“Come upstairs," she said.
Dominic went still. And then the longing and desire he’d been holding back cracked wide open.
He followed her up. The stairwell was narrow and smelled like someone's laundry and the curry from 2B. She unlocked her door. The apartment was dark except for the light she always left on in the hallway.
