What's Left of Our Hearts

Tasha

"Here we are, two luxury suites," said the girl manning the front desk, her false lashes fluttering like moths. If one didn't look too closely, she could almost pass for a porcelain mannequin with her painted-on face and peroxide smile.

"Oh, that's not what we booked," Sophie frowned.

"It looks like you've been upgraded and the entire bill has been paid for by one Mr. Dominic Cole," front desk Doll Face said.

Clara rolled her eyes. He would.

Sophie grinned like a child who found a pumpkin full of candy, and grabbed the keys. "Oh, that's wonderful!"

When Clara entered the obscenely lavish suite that was likely twice the size of her New York City abode, a bottle of champagne greeted her. Next to it was a small, white envelope.

"Naturally," she groaned. She had half a mind to ignore it. Pretend it wasn't there. Just walk away... yeah, right. She picked up the smooth slip of paper with begrudging eagerness.

Looking forward to dinner.

- Dom

Leave it to him to make a business dinner sound like a date. An anxious flutter went through her, one that lasted all through the car ride to the restaurant—black car also sent by "one Mr. Dominic Cole"—and kicked up at the sight of him turning around and meeting her gaze. He wore a tailored dinner jacket and a crisp blue shirt unbuttoned at his collar, revealing the tan skin of his neck. His eyes glittered when he spotted Clara. Sophie was an afterthought, but he made an effort to indulge her with a peck on the cheek.

"Clara, Sophie, this is my friend and partner in crime, Cary Beckett."

Cary gave the ladies a sly smile, lifting Sophie's hand to his thin, puckered lips. "Just Cary, please. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"Look, Clara. Real British gentlemen," she tittered.

"You're still married, Sophie," Clara sang and sat in the chair that Dom held out for her. She wasn't sure if it was better to sit next to him, or across from him, where his gaze would be harder to avoid. She concluded having a bit of distance worked just fine, if fine meant she was sweating like a nun at a pole dancing tryout. She took a deep gulp of water.

They slowly made their way through a full bottle-and-a-half of chardonnay, yammering about long flights, nice hotels, and ghastly London weather before getting down to business.

"I have to admit," Dom said, "I invited Cary for a reason. See, my friend here may need your help. He's got his fingers in many pots, different businesses—"

"I'm what you would say a professional dabbler," said Cary, his reedy eyebrows flashing mischievously. He had a toothy grin framed by two childlike dimples. Clara could easily imagine him as a young boy, smiling up at his mother after causing trouble and getting out of it with clever use of said dimples.

"He dabbles," Dom continued, "in the hospitality industry."

"Among other things," added Cary.

"Among other things," Dom agreed. "And so, when he told me that he is looking for a property in New York for a charming little boutique hotel, I insisted I introduce you."

"He said there's no one better for the job."

"And I stand by that statement," said Dom, lifting his glass to Sophie.

The smile that was spreading over Sophie's face was that of the cat that followed the mouse and accidentally stumbled upon so much cream. Clara could have sworn she could see whiskers growing on her boss's face. Sophie leaned towards Dimples, her A-cup-stands-for-absolutely-nothing-there cleavage playing peekaboo. "Tell me more," she said.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," a feminine voice interrupted, its leggy owner appearing to Clara's side. "Are we ready to order?"

"Erm, yes, I believe we are," Dom said, looking around the table. He glanced up at the server. "I will have the..." he paused, giving her a quizzical look. "Tasha?"

Clara glanced up at the nametag that said "Natasha." All of the sudden, the woman's legs looked miles, and her lips were entirely too full. There was no way her hair was naturally that deep black and that shiny.

What's wrong with you? Who cares if he screwed her?

"Er... Hello, Dominic," Tasha said, her professional smile faltering.

Dom seemed to struggle for something to say, while the rest of the table looked between the two of them."How have you been?"

"Alright," she said, pink creeping up her neck. There seemed to be something unspoken between them. Clara polished off the rest of her wine in one long gulp. "How is your brother?"

"He is doing well." Dom's fingers tapped his knee as if he were transmitting Morse code. After a long pause, he added, "He got married last summer."

Tasha took the smallest inhale. Imperceptible, except that Clara was near enough to hear it. From the depths of her memory, something floated to the surface. She thought she was going to be sick. "Excuse me," she said with a forced smile, dropping the napkin on the table as she beelined for the door.

Please don't forget to vote if you enjoyed this chapter