He’d done a surprisingly decent job tonight. As each contestant presented their work, Finster had engaged them all in conversation, offering thoughtful, legitimate feedback. He was built more like a basketball player, standing over two meters tall, and possessed very symmetrical features for a man who’d taken a ball full to the face during the World Cup. When off the field, he raised millions of pounds for children’s charities and was reading history at Cambridge.
And could still spare the time to guest-judge Operation Cake and flirt with Sylvie all night.
“Are you growling?” Mariana asked mildly at Dominic’s side. Her gaze followed his as Finster stroked Sylvie’s shoulder with his thumb. Sylvie looked down at his hand. “Ah. Poor Chuckie. A veritable god amongst us mortals, yet he still hasn’t noticed he’s shooting his shot at a brick wall. When Sylvie’s not tottering about half-dead, she’s eye-fucking you.” Across the room, Sylvie firmly removed and returned Finster’s thumb. “No need for the jealous alpha wolf act.”
Coolly, he said, “Jealousy is a destructive, pointless emotion and a complete waste of energy.”
“Fairly annoying, then, that it’s seeping from your pores right now?”
“Very.” And apparently he could add pettiness to the score of new emotions Sylvie was foisting upon him, as she delivered a severe-looking comment and Finster’s handsome face fell.
“Imagine thinking that woman is in any mood for seduction right now. She’s so pale her makeup looks like someone smeared lipstick on a porcelain doll. Is it definitely food poisoning or have you two been guzzling absinthe again?”
He didn’t immediately reply. Sylvie had taken out a water bottle and was sipping from it slowly. Whatever she’d said to Finster had sent the footballer packing. Her eyes met Dominic’s over the bottle, and she lifted her free hand, touching it to her cheek in a quick gesture. More studio-speak. The sign for keep going. All good, carry on, continue filming, ignore the horny, overpaid athlete.
Subtext: And drop the unexpected mother hen act; it’s freaking me the fuck out.
When he narrowed his eyes, so did she.
A little smile tugged at her mouth, and he couldn’t help the twitch of his own.
When he turned back to Mariana, the amusement and teasing in her expression had faded. She looked at him silently for several moments before she said, “Do you know what’s strange? I would rank you as one of the most inscrutable people I’ve ever met. For the entire first year on this set, I wondered if you were adopting a deliberate persona. The requisite Demon King in the pantomime.”
“I have as many failings as the next person. Possibly more—”
“Since I’m the next person, definitely more,” Mariana mused.
“But dishonesty isn’t one of them.”
However, even as he heard himself say the words, his eyes were inexorably drawn back to Sylvie. She was sitting in almost exactly the location of her onetime workstation, where he’d seen her for the first time four years ago. When his usual brief glance across the new contestants had paused for three thudding heartbeats.
Just that handful of seconds, and later that night, as the taste of her garish glitter-bomb cupcakes stuck to his taste buds like superglue, her face had been similarly fixed in his memory. He’d seen the freckles on her nose, the mole on her neck, even the way her Cupid’s bow curved fractionally higher on the left side.
Maybe he’d always tried to be honest in his dealings with others.
But clearly not always with himself.
“Oh, I know you’re honest,” Mariana said with intense wryness. “Footnote: honesty is a more palatable virtue when paired with tact. But you give nothing away. By comparison, Sylvie is an open book.”
Something in her tone made the muscles in his gut momentarily tighten.
“Your heart was in your eyes just then, mi amigo.” He turned his head, and Mariana held his gaze with great frankness. “It was always at least fifty-fifty odds you two would eventually hit a mattress. For the most part, even when people dislike each other, they don’t strike palpable sparks every time they meet. Chemistry—true, strong, wild chemistry—is the biggest rush in the world and rare as hell, as I’m sure we’re all sadly aware. It would be a missed opportunity if you didn’t burn up the sheets for a while.” Her scrutiny was piercing. “But it’s not just an affair, is it? On your end.”
Those last three words were a mere echo of his own growing apprehension. He still felt them like an iron fist in his chest.
And yet another self-revelation: in a million years, he couldn’t have imagined divulging any details of his private life to a colleague, but he found himself unable to deny Sylvie in any way. What happened between them was nobody else’s business, yet he couldn’t just dismiss her as if their changing relationship were something to be ashamed of and not the greatest blessing of his life right now.
Potentially ever.
“I’ve had many feelings where Sylvie is concerned.” The note of irony slipped in, a well-worn protective shield. “None of them have ever been casual.”
For all her digs about his own lack of tact, Mariana rarely beat about the bush herself. “And Sylvie? Is it only an affair for Sylvie?”
His jaw clenched. Again, he looked across the room, where Sylvie was still sipping water. She wrinkled her nose at him with gentle playfulness, and he inhaled sharply.
He couldn’t reply. For a number of reasons, not the least of which was that he didn’t know the answer to that question. It wasn’t that Sylvie was hiding her feelings. She obviously cared about him. From her expression last night, she cared quite deeply.
But as to the future—
One day at a time. Their mutual words last night applied in this and every situation.
Logical. Unsatisfying.
Perhaps reading the tension in his expression, Mariana diverted the subject. “Word in the greenroom is that you two are nose to nose on a very lucrative commission. Is it a bit strange to be . . . personally collaborating, shall we say, while you’re competing professionally?”
It was so bloody bizarre that it wasn’t strange. And not only were they “personally collaborating”—if that were the polite term for kissing her mouth, nuzzling in the scent of her skin, feeling her nipple bead against his thumb and her wet, silky muscles tighten around his erection, and a million tiny moments that were for the two of them alone—they were doing joint investigations for rival proposals. Somehow standard contract prep had turned into the adventures of Nancy Drew and Frank bloody Hardy.
And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed his work so much.
The camera crew had almost finished setting up for the final part of the shoot, and Aadhya called a five-minute warning before waving Mariana over.
Dominic crossed to Sylvie’s side. Regardless of any watching eyes or cameras, he reached out and lightly stroked the top of her head with the side of his thumb. One day at a time. But whatever their future held, he’d never take that increasingly natural intimacy for granted.
She reached up and softly flicked his palm with her fingers. Her eyes searched his. “Are you okay? You look a bit odd.”
“And you look like a wrung-out dishcloth.” He touched the backs of his fingers to her forehead, checking her temperature.