Page 24 of These Shoes Weren't Made for Stalking

His warm hand settled on the small of my back, steadying me as he guided me toward the parking lot. I climbed into the passenger seat and clicked my seatbelt into place. My eyelids kept drooping during the drive, exhaustion finally pulling me under.

I blinked awake as Dominic’s car slowed to a stop outside Cobblers’ Corner. Pushing the passenger door open, I shifted to step out.

The warm glow of the streetlamps bathed the Historical District in a soft, amber light, transforming the quaint brick facades and Art Deco shopfronts into something almost ethereal.

I paused for a moment, drinking in the sight of wrought-iron lampposts and hanging flower baskets swaying gently in the evening breeze. My gaze drifted to Dominic, his profile sharp against the twilight sky.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” I said, breaking the comfortable silence between us.

I studied his face, tracing the sharp lines of his profile with my gaze. His jaw clenched, a telltale sign of tension. Those cool gray eyes of his were fixed on some invisible point in the distance, lost in thought as we strolled side by side. When he finally turned to me, our eyes locked, and I felt that familiar flutter in my chest. A tingle raced through my body and I found myself holding my breath, caught in the moment.

“I know it’s been a long day, but...” I finally said, my voice softer than I intended. “Would you like to come back to my shop? I could whip up some dinner. Nothing fancy, just...”

I trailed off, suddenly unsure. Why was I feeling so shy, stumbling on my words like a lovesick kid? Dominic’s lips curved into a smile that made my knees go weak.

“I’d like that,” he said, his rich baritone causing my skin to prickle with goosebumps. “Lead the way.”

9

Metal scraped against metal as I searched for the right key in the dim orange light. My fingers brushed past the storage room key, Penny’s spare key he always forgets, until—there. The brass shop key caught the glow from the old iron street lamps above. My stomach grumbled, protesting the meager half-scone that had passed as lunch. The sweet, buttery morsel seemed ages ago now, lost in the blur of everything that had transpired today.

“Hope you don’t mind a simple meal,” I said as I lead Dominic upstairs to my apartment. Opening the door, I headed straight for the kitchen.

“Not at all,” he replied, his deep baritone trailing behind me. “What can I do to help?”

I turned from the cupboard, a bit surprised by his offer. The Dominic I’d met in his office at Vertex—all crisp suit and boardroom swagger—didn’t strike me as the type to roll up his sleeves in a cramped kitchen. Since I’d known him, however, his icy demeanor had thawed, revealing glimpses of a warmth I hadn’t expected from a high-powered, executive alpha.

“Could you grab some plates from that cabinet?” I pointed to my left. “And maybe uncork a bottle of wine? There’s a decent Merlot in the rack by the fridge.”

I pulled out a well-worn cast iron skillet, the weight comforting in my hands. Olive oil shimmered as it heated. I tossed in diced onions, their sharp scent filling the air. Garlic followed, sizzling and fragrant.

My knife made quick work of mushrooms and bell peppers. They joined the onions in the pan with a satisfying hiss. I hummed an old tune as I worked, sneaking glances at Dominic. He leaned against the doorframe, tie loosened, a ghost of a smile on his face.

“Smells good,” he said.

I grinned, cracking eggs into the vegetable mixture. “It’s just a frittata. Nothing fancy.”

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Dominic asked as he retrieved two glasses and a corkscrew from the cabinet above the wine rack.

I sprinkled salt and cracked black pepper over the eggs. “Mom used to prop me at the kitchen counter while I struggled through math homework. She’d quiz me on multiplication tables between stirring pots.” The spatula scraped the edge of the pan, folding the eggs just so. “After she passed, Grandpa stepped in. Said a man should know his way around both footwear soles and kitchen souls.”

Dominic deftly pulled the cork from the bottle, shooting me a quizzical look. “Kitchen souls?”

A wisp of steam curled up as I tilted the pan. “His words. He swore every dish had its own personality. This frittata? Pure comfort food—straightforward, no pretense.”

“Like its cook?” Dominic’s mouth quirked up at one corner.

Heat crept across my cheeks, and I busied myself with adjusting the flame. “You haven’t tasted it yet. Could be terrible.”

“I’m positive I’ll enjoy every bite.”

The tips of my ears burned hotter than the stovetop. I cleared my throat. “Grandpa taught me how to cook the basics first—eggs, bacon, simple stuff. This recipe, though… it was my mom’s. One of the few things I remember about her, actually. She’d make it every Sunday.”

Dominic watched me from where he leaned against the counter. “Your parents… how old were you when?—?”

“Seven. One rainy night, one slippery road...” I focused on the eggs, refusing to meet his eyes. “Grandpa said I spent the first month after sleeping in the shop. Said the smell of leather probably reminded me of Dad.”

“I’m sorry,” Dominic said, his steel-gray eyes softening. A gentle note crept into his usual sharp tone.