Page 64 of Disavowed

Dripping with sweat, Daisy turned off the Body Combat video and dragged a towel down her face and neck. She chugged the last of the bottled water, then went into the bathroom and stripped out of her workout clothes.

Nothing like a punching and kicking, pulse-pounding routine to work off emotional flab.

It was a therapeutic ritual she’d begun years ago, a way to land imaginary body blows on the people who’d hurt her the most. Not the most exciting way to spend her birthday, but for forty intense minutes she wasn’t plagued with sadness. Unfortunately, the effect never lasted long enough, and tonight it dissipated all too quickly.

“Dammit.” She cranked the water on in the shower, then yanked back the plastic curtain with such force she nearly ripped it off the metal rod. She stepped in, jerked the curtain closed behind her, and tilted her face to the spray.

If only her grandparents hadn’t been so obsessed with the so-called purity of their family line. It was archaic, really, and all because half her genetics wasn’t blue blood, like theirs. Her mother had been a beautiful, loving woman from the Scottish Highlands, but she was a commoner and had never been welcomed into the family.

Most of the rage had diminished long ago, but she had to accept that some of the hurt and resentment would always be there. If she didn’t get over this woe-is-me mentality it would consume her. She grabbed the bottle of body soap and a washcloth, then vigorously scrubbed herself clean and shampooed her hair.

After toweling off, she applied a fresh Band-Aid to her cut finger, which had finally stopped throbbing, then she stepped into a pair of low-cut jeans and an oversize canary yellow, V-neck cardigan. Next she blow-dried her hair and brushed it until it hung around her shoulders in dark, shiny waves.

The face staring back at her in the mirror was thirty-five years old. “Happy birthday to me.” For the first time since she could remember, she regretted being alone on this day. Mostly she regretted not stopping on the way home for one of those mini-chocolate mousse cakes she habitually treated herself to on her birthday. Why, oh why did I not bring home some kind of chocolate to get me through the night?

Out of nostalgia, she dug into her jewelry box and slipped on one of the necklaces her parents had given her. She didn’t know if it was real gold and couldn’t have cared less. Looking in the mirror, she fingered the antiqued gold chain dotted every inch or so with tiny enamel cloisonné flowers. This had been one of the last gifts her mother and father had given her before they died, and she loved it.

The doorbell rang, and she frowned. No one had buzzed her on the intercom, and both neighbors on her floor were away for the weekend. She set the brush onto the vanity and tiptoed in her bare feet to the front door. Leaning in, she looked through the peephole. She gasped and stepped back.

Dom was outside her apartment.

She held her hands to the sides of her face, ignoring the bell when it rang again. The sight of him standing there, so close and yet so far, had her mind jumbling.

Should I let him in? No. But he’ll just keep ringing the damn bell.

Why is he here? To get a piece of my ass. Probably. Maybe.

I don’t want to be alone tonight. There it was. She was so freaking tired of being alone.

“Daisy, open up,” he said through the door. “I know it’s your birthday. I brought cake.”

Cake? She narrowed her eyes, then peered again through the peephole. Sure enough, he had a bakery box in his hands. “What kind?” she asked through the door. Don’t say chocolate, don’t say chocolate, don’t say chocolate. Because if he did, she’d have to…

“Chocolate.”

…let him in.

Groaning, she pressed her forehead to the door. “Don’t do this to yourself,” she whispered, both sides of her brain at all-out war.

She opened the door.

For a moment, they stared at each other across the threshold, neither one moving or saying a word. Finally, he gave her a hesitant smile. “You gonna let me in?”

She stepped aside, and as he brushed past her, the shifting air brought with it his clean, fresh scent.

“Where do you want it?” When he held up the cake box, his dark blue Henley tightened across his chest, outlining firm pectorals.

“Kitchen.” She closed the door and followed him, her gaze inevitably drawn to his muscular jean-clad ass.

When he set the box onto the table and opened the lid, her taste buds did a little jig. The cake had to be six inches high and covered in what looked like the richest, most decadent chocolate frosting she’d ever seen. And if that wasn’t enough, the top of the cake was mounded high with chocolate roses and curls, adding another two inches to its height.

Unable to resist, she dragged her finger through the side of the cake, then stuck her finger into her mouth. “Mmmm.” She scooped up more and opened her mouth.

“Hey.” Dom grabbed her wrist. “No more until you make a wish and blow out the candle.” Leaning in, he closed his mouth over her finger and sucked off the frosting.

She gaped at him, totally unprepared for the lightning zing of goose bumps pebbling every inch of her skin.

Without missing a beat, he turned and opened the refrigerator. “Milk?”