He’s being an overprotective brother to the extreme and I can’t figure it out. Yes, he’s always looked out for me and our sister, Meredith, but this is very, very different. Dax has moved beyond a protective interest in my love life to more of a hypervigilant worrier, and I’m not sure why.
Regardless, I slam the door of my brother’s house and dash down the porch steps. Dominik rounds the front of his car—a Porsche—and surveys me in surprise. I can see he had expected to ring the doorbell like dates usually start.
He gets over his shock, though. Instead, he focuses on me. His gaze travels down my body, taking in the one-shoulder dress in a creamy beige color. It’s versatile—can easily fit in at a pizza joint or somewhere fairly expensive and high class.
Of course, it will also work well if we just want to hit a hotel and go at it. It’ll look just as good on the floor.
“You’re a vision tonight,” Dominik praises, veering toward the passenger door to open it for me. I meet him there, tip my head back, and take him in.
Mostly his face.
It’s a great one—chiseled angles, expressive eyes, and a hard jawline that clenches right before he—
I shake my head, lower my eyes, and mumble, “Thank you” as I slide into the supple leather seat.
Only after the door is closed do I let myself scan him as he rounds the front of the Porsche, which smells brand spanking new. The sleek vehicle fits him. His outfit, too. In dark charcoal dress pants and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled three-quarters of the way up, he looks good.
Especially with his strong, powerful arms revealed.
Hell, there’s not a part of his body that isn’t gorgeous.
When he opens his door and drops into the bucket seat beside me, he asks, “Why the hasty escape from the house?”
I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t already know. “Dax isn’t your biggest fan.”
Smirking, Dominik closes his door, then cranks the engine. It roars before purring. “He’ll warm up to me.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I’m not even sure I’ll warm up to you.”
“You’re in my car right now,” he murmurs huskily, sending a shiver up my spine. “I’d say you’ve warmed up plenty.”
“Nice car, by the way,” I say, running my hand along my leather seat.
“Thanks,” he replies easily, shifting it into reverse to back out of the driveway. “Had it delivered and waiting for me at the airport.”
“Didn’t realize rental agencies had such fancy cars.”
“No idea if they do,” he replies with a charming grin. “I bought this one over the phone today.”
“You bought it? Just to drive around while you’re here?”
“I bought a house here, too,” he replies, putting the car in first and taking off down the street. “Going to take you there now and cook dinner for you.”
I just blink, trying to process that type of wealth. I’ve never experienced it up close. I mean, Dax makes a lot of money, but not enough to buy extra houses and Porsches on a whim.
“Unless you’d prefer not to go to my house,” he says, apparently taking my lack of response as hesitation.
“Can you cook?” I ask.
“I’m not bad,” he admits.
I shrug. “Then let’s go to your house.”
We make small talk as he maneuvers the sports car like a dream into Scottsdale. He enters a neighborhood with houses the likes of which I’ve never seen, pulling into the driveway of a behemoth residence that has to be a good fifteen-thousand-square-feet or more.
When he brings the car to a stop in the circular driveway, I gape at the grandeur of it, whistling low. “As someone who has seen your goods up close and personal, I know damn well you didn’t buy this thing to compensate for something you are… um… personally lacking.”
Dominik snorts, gesturing at my door. “Get out of the car, smart-ass. It was on sale.”
“Oh, a multimillion-dollar house was on sale? How can you pass that up?” I roll my eyes.
He doesn’t reply, and we exit the vehicle. As I close the door, I let my eyes roam over the façade—classic desert design of cream stucco with a red-tile roof—and marvel over the size of it. It even has wings.
The house he bought to live in just during home playoff games has wings.
“You know how many starving kids you could feed for the cost of this thing?” I murmur as I twist my neck to glance at him standing beside me.
If I thought it would offend him, I’d have been wrong. He just smirks, placing his hand on my lower back to guide me up the front portico. “I donate plenty to care for children of all sorts. My conscience isn’t troubled in the slightest.”
I feel slightly bad for even inferring that. I’ve read enough articles to know Dominik Carlson is a generous person, and I’ve seen firsthand how well he treats his players.
Still, such flippancy is shocking, but… I’ve never known anyone who had this type of wealth.
Dominik leads me inside, punching a code into an alarm panel in the foyer. When he brushes by me, I follow him past a sweeping staircase to a massive great room that could probably fit five normal-sized living rooms inside it.
Of course, it’s fully furnished and tastefully decorated, right down to the knickknacks in the built-ins. I’m curious who handled the decor since I would expect someone like Dominik to go with sturdy, masculine pieces. Instead, the furniture is plush, yet light and airy looking. Like a person could sink down into the couch with a good book and get lost for hours.
“Would you like a mixed drink or some wine while I cook?” Dominik asks as he veers to the left into a massive kitchen with gleaming appliances, a center island that seats eight, and custom cabinetry done in a French Provencal style.
“Wine,” I reply, trying not to gawk at the splendor before me. I love to cook. This kitchen could have been pulled straight from my dreams.
I set my purse on the island then pull out a stool while Dominik opens what I had thought was merely a cabinet but turns out to be an actual door leading into a massive pantry. It’s bigger than most kitchens I’ve seen. He returns with a bottle of wine, then uncorks it.
“How come you’ve been playing so hard to get?” he asks as he moves over to another cabinet and retrieves wineglasses.
“Hard to get?” I ask, playing a little dumb, which totally amuses me. “I’ve been out of the country for the last month. It’s kind of hard to ‘get’ something that’s not even within reach.”
Dominik manages to roll his eyes and pour an expert glass of wine at the same time. He slides it across the island toward where I’ve yet to take a seat. “I’m not talking physical ‘getting’. You could have at least responded to my texts.”
I lift the glass, bringing it to my lips while I consider this. He’s right. I could have easily just replied to tell him to leave me alone, and he would have. The fact I didn’t clearly speaks volumes.
But I’m not ready to admit I find him dangerous, which is the main reason I never responded.
Instead, I turn it back on him as he pours himself a glass of wine. “Why did you keep texting me when I wasn’t responding?”