What's Left of Our Hearts

Dominic

By noon the tie around Dom's neck felt like someone had put a chihuahua's collar on a bulldog: a bit tight around the windpipe.

Courtesy of flight delays, he was so very late for the opening cocktail–not that he gave a damn. He would have so rather jumped off the balcony of his hotel room than attend another stuffy cocktail hour with stuffy suits talking about bonds and annuities. He longed to be on one of the white specks bobbing on the water far below his window, the sun on his bare chest, the sea spraying his face. Something about this view reminded him of his father's coastal villa—villa was maybe too generous a word for it, but it felt like a palace all those summers he spent there in his youth. He hadn't been back in almost seven years. He pushed that thought away, something he'd gotten good at only recently. He no longer felt like someone grabbed his innards and twisted them in a knot, mostly because he'd learned not to torture himself by thinking about her. Sure, there were others since, but none could compare to the girl that broke his heart and took the pieces with her. These days, he almost didn't feel anything, and he liked it that way. He was healing.

Putting that box away in his head, Dom gazed down at the patio several stories below. A flash of jewelry on a woman's wrist caught his eyes, reflecting the sun as brilliantly as the crystal-blue waters down below. He watched her emerald-green dress trail in her wake until she disappeared from view, momentarily transfixed by the color. He sighed and dragged his feet back inside. He donned a sports jacket over a blue shirt with a nice pair of jeans, dabbed some cologne on, and raked paste through his hair to get it somewhat presentable. There. Almost like Beckham.

Maybe all the way Beckham, he smiled to himself as two women in flimsy swim covers walked by, giving him approving looks up and down and up again. One of them paused with her gaze at his... jeans. It was a really nice pair of jeans, Dominic reckoned. The belt was good too. Yes, that was it. Great belt.

His elevator stopped on the second floor—which was empty, of course, because no one ever waits for the elevator on the second floor. They just press the button and leave. He rolled his eyes at no one in particular.

Navigating the tourist groups that were on their way in or out—he didn't care either way—was an obstacle course. Lucky sods, he thought of the ones leaving. And then he just thought they were wankers for clogging the lobby with all their worldly possessions. It's like these people have never heard of packing light. It's a vacation, not migration, people. He jumped over a duffle and gave wide berth to a gaggle of bridesmaid geese when he froze mid-stride.

Could it be?

There was no mistaking her.

The name, silent, escaped his lips with a gasp.

"Clara."

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