Page 85 of Full Throttle

Miraculously, she seemed to be considering his offer, which was more progress than he’d expected. “Come on. I’ll even put your phone in some rice.”

Juliette’s smile looked reluctant. “Do you even have normal rice?”

“What do you mean?”

Juliette shrugged. “I didn’t take you for a basmati rice person. That’s all.”

Dominic pulled a face. “Of course I have normal rice.” He didn’t. The most normal rice he owned was arborio rice, imported directly from a small town in Italy. Not that he was about to admit that.

Juliette’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you helping me?”

Dominic looked down at his bloodied knuckles. Because I owe you after that messed-up dinner. Because I want to. Because, for some reason, I can’t stop myself from trying to protect you even though I’m furious with you. “Maybe it’s a disarming tactic. I’m trying to throw you off your game.”

That seemed to appease her. “You can try all you’d like. I’m still winning that seat.”

“Is that a yes?”

Juliette held out an arm. “Lead the way.”

Chapter 27

Green Light

“It might be messy,” he warned.

Juliette gave him a look. They were standing outside his London townhouse; the white façade gleamed like polished bone in the last gasps of sunlight. Dominic withdrew his keys. Had he remembered to buff the kitchen countertops? He’d certainly wiped them, but as his father liked to say, that was a job half-done.

He hesitated. “Maybe I should go in first to—”

“Open the door, Hastings,” Juliette said, and then she shivered in her wet clothes, which decided him.

Dominic opened the door.

Juliette was inside immediately, inspecting the living room. Dominic took stock of the situation: organized cookbooks, three cameras on display, some weights stacked neatly by the coffee table…but the coasters, he realized, grimacing; he’d forgotten to put away the coasters. Juliette raised an eyebrow.

“Wow.” She shook her head. “You’re right, Hastings. This place is a dump.”

Dominic stacked the coasters. “I would have hoovered.”

“Sensible,” Juliette said gravely. “You might have missed a speck of dust.” She turned to the wall. “Did your mother take these?”

Dominic followed her gaze. Black-and-white photographs took up most of the space, a hodgepodge of different cities: a stampede of mules in Greece, blurred motorcycles in Vietnam, a man cooking pasta in Italy…

He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Yeah.”

Juliette tapped a blurry photograph of a train. “I like this one. You can tell that your mother was talented.” Dominic paused, and her eyes narrowed. “What?”

Dominic cleared his throat. “Nothing.” He’d taken that photo when he was visiting Liêm in Hanoi; they’d drunk beers on Train Street, occasionally jumping back from the railroad tracks as indifferent steel giants whizzed by. But admitting that would only make her dislike it, so he turned away. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

Dominic made for his bedroom. He yanked open his wardrobe, surveying the color-sorted items. A black shirt, a soft white tee, a shirt with his favorite football team…He held up the white T-shirt, then imagined Juliette wearing it, the material skimming the tops of her firm thighs. Heat stirred in his stomach, and he shoved the T-shirt back into his closet.

Yeah.

No.

He settled on a pair of gray jogging pants and the football shirt. By the time Dominic reached the kitchen, Juliette was happily sifting through his cupboards, inspecting glass containers and bags. She held up a spice jar, looking amused.

“Fennel pollen? Really, Hastings?”