The following night, Clara found herself in her closet again, standing in front of the same mirror, facing the same dilemma.
"I have nothing to wear," she huffed in the empty room. She had done her makeup, straightened her hair—and even shaved—and the cumulative guilt of putting in all that effort for a dinner she should not be going to, with a man she should not even be speaking to, had her in a headlock. It had become a living thing that whispered in her ear with a wet, raspy breath. Don't you dare wear the red dress. Clara ran a finger down the cherry-colored fabric and, with a groan, decisively grabbed the LBD hanging next to it. Modest. Understated. I'm-not-trying-at-all-for-you: That was the message she wanted to send. The little treacherous voice that piped up anytime Dom was the topic laughed, too late for that, birdie. She briefly wondered why the voice sounded like a chainsmoking speakeasy pianist from the 20s as she zipped the dress halfway up. She walked up to Owen's desk and pushed her hair aside. He carried on typing, oblivious until she cleared her throat. "Honey?"
"Oh, yes, sorry," he fumbled with the zipper and closed it all the way up. His hands never lingered down her back the way she'd have liked them to, merely completed the task and returned to the keyboard.
With a sigh, she slipped her heels on and grabbed her keys. "I shouldn't be long," she said. Owen uh-huh'ed absently.
I am simply going to go there and tell him that this is not going to work. I won't stay for dinner, I will say what I have to say and I will be on my way. Time to get out of this mess.
Clara spent the whole ride down to 53rd street failing at breathing exercises, wringing her fingers, smoothing her hair, picking at invisible lint on her black dress. She patted herself on the shoulder for choosing knee-length. Walking into the bar at the Baccarat hotel, she was bathed in subtle luminescence bouncing off every surface—the inky polished walls, the checkerboard floor clean enough to eat off of, each glass-topped table and mirror-lined shelf. Subdued conversations were accented by the clink of crystals along the lobby and all the way through the bar that beckoned under a domed ceiling dripping with crystal chandeliers like the most luxurious grape boughs Clara had ever seen. It was a light crowd for a Saturday, but Dominic would have been easy to spot even in a roomful of people. He had this way of drawing the eye towards him, like a European oil painting in a roomful of colorless stone busts.
"Clara," he rose when she approached him. "I wasn't sure you'd come," he said, glancing down at his feet. The bashful look he gave her made him look younger. It triggered some memory that Clara sharply suppressed.
"I didn't think I would either," she admitted.
"I made us a reservation at La Grenouille, so we can walk over there now and be right on time," he said.
"Dom, hold on," she touched his arm lightly. He turned to face her, an inquisitive eyebrow raised. "I can't have dinner with you."
"Why not?" he sounded genuinely surprised.
"You know why," she said. She squared her shoulders, before her courage left her, and spoke as if someone had set a timer for seven seconds. "I think it will be best if I recuse myself from the engagement entirely. Sophie will have to handle things moving forward, and I..." she looked down at her hands. "I can't do this." She felt lighter and heavier. It was time to get herself out of this mess with as much of her heart and sanity intact, even though it was a bit late on both accounts.
"I see," he said after a long pause. "I will not convince you to stay for dinner. You've clearly made up your mind—about everything—and I doubt we'll see each other again after tonight. So," he took a deep breath, "why don't we just get a drink and part if not as friends, then at least on amicable terms. Please?" he asked with a gesture to the chair next to his, so politely that Clara found herself nodding.
"That seems fair. Just a drink," she agreed as she placed her clutch on the counter. Sophie would appreciate it. It was a courtesy to her boss. That's all this was.
They talked about anything, everything, and nothing in particular. Safe topics like a day in the life with Sophie Sun, what having his own company had been like, where to find great food in New York, and what recent travel each had done. Somehow, Clara was on her second drink and, surprisingly, enjoying herself. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or knowing they were parting ways tonight, but she found herself much more open and much less afraid to hear what he had to say. The crystal-fractured candlelight imbued the maroon salon with an incandescent warmth made even cozier by the view of cold glass structures asleep across the street. Clara found leaning closer into Dominic as their voices became softer and lower.
"I saw you this summer," he said, swirling the dram in his glass.
Clara took a sudden interest in her own drink, watching the plum liquid dangerously lick the edge of the glass before she tilted it back where it wouldn't spill. Just like them, always reaching the edge, pulling back at the last second. "I know," she admitted.
"What did you think?" he asked, lifting his head up to look at her.
She dared not meet his gaze. "I... I'm not sure," she frowned. "It was like...like you were—"
"A ghost come to life?" he offered.
"Yes," she lifted her head up. "Exactly."
"I know the feeling," he said and took a swig. Neither said a word for a long time, finding solidarity in the silence. "We should probably go," he said after a while.
Clara stood up in a daze as if shaken from a dream that was neither one she wanted to stay in longer, nor something she wanted to wake from. He held out her coat for her.
"You look lovely tonight, by the way," he said, his warm breath brushing her ear in a way that sent shivers skittering down her neck like frightened critters. She couldn't find her voice to say anything. It was better that she didn't. If this is how far he'd gotten without any encouragement, she feared what trouble she'd get herself into if she had shown even a glimmer of consideration. She felt his palm, lightly lingering on her back as he steered her toward the elevator.
While they waited, he blurted, "Are you really happy with Evan?"
"You mean Owen?"
Dominic shook his head. "Evan, Owen. You should be with someone—" he cut himself off with a frustrated sigh, then tried again. "I just thought you'd be with someone who's a little more..." she waited, but he simply threw his hands up.
"More what?" she asked. More like you?
"Simply more," he resigned.
"Owen is nice, and kind, and..." safe.
The elevator pinged open and they filed into the box encased entirely in black stone. Clara looked up into his reflection and found his head was turned towards her. The one-floor trip was all of the sudden too long. She met his gaze directly, and his eyes seem to say the opposite. Too short. The street-level lobby was done in the same black stone. It was like stepping into a room made of the night sky. Two candelabras stood guard at each end of the hall, and another set of lights glittered like an orderly constellation around a set of columns that blocked the view to the street. The nearest soul was the doorman unfortunately posted in the cold outside the double glass doors.
The moment Clara stepped off the elevator, she heard Dom say her name and spun around, only to find herself walking back against the wall. She would have been grateful for the cool stone behind her if the heat between them wasn't enough to melt a glacier. "Dom," she protested meekly. The edge of his lip quirked in a wolfish grin as he leaned close to where his lips brushed her cheek.
"Nice, kind...." Dom smirked. "Does he know," he rasped in her ear, "about your sensitive spot right here," he bent his head to kiss her right below the ear. He trailed wet kisses down her neck and back up until she felt an involuntary quiver sinfully shake her body. She felt his smile against her clavicle, his breath sending another delicious shockwave through her. "Does he know," his fingers slipped between her coat and her dress to the small of her back, "how sensitive your back is when touched just so?" He ran his hand up her spine, drawing circles between her shoulder blades before plunging his fingers in the nape of her neck. She felt his hand caress her chin and cup her cheek, while the other claimed its place on her thigh, as he crooned, "Can he do this to you, Clara?"
Clara was lost. She was swimming in a warm lagoon surrounded by flames in the ice-crystal reflection of his eyes. His hands were everywhere, he was everywhere, and all she could see was his face, the hungry look that begged her to take what had been hers–what was still hers, that look seemed to say. She eyed the wet expanse of his lips, and could almost remember what they felt like. They were so close, she could smell the cut-glass scent of scotch and gin mixing in their breaths. He left the last breath of distance between their lips up to her. With the very last shred of her wits, she turned her face away. She breathed heavily as if she'd moved a truck with her bare hands.
He leaned against the wall in defeat, his head hung in the curve of her neck. "Why do you still resist this between us, Clara?"
She slid away from him, casting a look over her shoulder. "Have a safe trip, Dominic," she said, eager to vanish before her legs changed direction and ran towards him instead. There was too close for comfort, there was toeing the point of no return, and then there was doing the tango behind enemy lines, and someone needed to rip her dance card in two and leave the dance floor.
She exhaled as soon as she put several blocks of safe distance between them, and laughed at herself. Safe distance. There was no such thing when it came to Dominic, she thought and opted to walk home to clear her muddled, frustrated, shaken mind. The only safe distance was an ocean between them, and in a few short hours that's where he would be—back in that red-for-danger box he came out of.
And to think I almost wore the red dress.
Was that a close call, or what?
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