I am absolutely dumbfounded. All I can do is stare as Dominic's words register. Beautiful? Me?
My shell-shocked expression makes him let out that same rich laugh, the one that stirs something deep in my gut. A blush spreads through my cheeks like wildfire, despite every attempt to play it cool.
"T-thank you," I stammer like a complete idiot.
Finally, he steps back a little. I take a deep breath as the constriction in my chest loosens.
He sits on the couch next to me but leans against the armrest, fully facing me.
"Aren't you going to tell me your name?"
Oh. Right.
"Cecilia. But everyone just calls me Cece."
"Cecilia," he repeats, rolling the word in his mouth like he's testing it out. I've never loved the sound of my own name so much.
"So you must be at the same university as Stacey?"
The normalcy of the question—uni talk, clubs—relaxes me. I nod.
"Not exactly. I'm an exchange student from NYU. I'm here in France for six months because I joined the intensive biking summer camp. That's where I met Stacey—she's on the team. We became friends. Roommates, too."
He makes a thoughtful face. "So you're a bike racer."
"Yes! I love to ride." My chest swells with pride. Then I realize how that sounds. "I mean—bikes. Bicycles."
He laughs at my flustered expression, and those damn dimples show up again.
"I gathered."
"New York," he muses. "I've never been there, actually. Even though I'm from Boston."
"Really?" I ask, surprised.
He nods, then tilts his head as he studies me.
"You have a slight accent. I assumed you were European."
"My family's Italian-American." Not even the half of it.
"That explains the lovely features." His smile is shamelessly flirtatious.
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It's a wonder there's not steam pouring out of them at this point.
"W-what about you?" Apparently, I'm a stutterer now.
"Well… you must've seen what I do yesterday. I think Chase told me you were at the match."
My mouth drops open. "That was you?"
He nods, rubbing the back of his neck, sheepish.
"I'm a boxer. Planning to go pro in Boston, but my folks aren't thrilled."
"They don't like boxers?"
"It's more the unstable career choice they don't like."
"But you're so good at it. You can definitely do it."
That earns me another smile. "I'm glad you noticed."
Great. Speechless again.
"Right now though, I'm here on vacation for two months. There's a trainer in France people rave about. I was going to leave—" His eyes flick to my lips. "—but now I think I need to reevaluate my plans."
Before I can form a reply, the door swings open. I jump, trying to look nonchalant as Chase walks in. His eyes sparkle with curiosity as he glances between us.
"Look who decided to show his face. Does His Majesty want a coffee?"
He sets a tray with four mugs down on the table. I reach for mine, but Dominic beats me to it. Our fingers brush, and my skin burns at the contact. He doesn't let go. Instead, he lifts the mug by its rim with his other hand and passes it to me.
I pull back quickly, taking the warm drink and blowing on it—anything to avoid looking at him. His quiet chuckle wraps around me like smoke.
I nearly forget Chase is still in the room until I hear him snort.
"Sorry to interrupt this touching moment, Cece." He looks at Dominic. "Not sorry to you though."
His expression shifts, suddenly serious, and he sets his empty mug on the table.
"She's awake. If you want to see her."
A wave of worry crashes over me. Stacey.
I get up, still holding my mug. Chase nods toward the staircase, and I head off.
I tread carefully up the spiral staircase, cautious not to spill coffee on the bougie rugs. The first room—Chase's—is slightly ajar. I slip inside to find Stacey lounging on the bed. She jumps up when she sees me and tackles me in a hug.
I exhale, breathing in her comforting scent. "I'm so glad you're okay."
She nods against my shoulder but says nothing.
I pull back and gently grip her shoulders, trying to meet her gaze. She looks away.
Something's off.
"What did he do?"
She shakes her head.
I narrow my eyes. Still nothing.
No marks on her face or neck—but then I notice the way she's wringing her hands, sleeves pulled tightly over them.
My stomach drops.
I grab her arm, ignoring her protests, and push up the sleeve.
A dark bruise rings her wrist like a shackle.
My voice is ice. "Where is he?"