“My attention span is short. I don’t fuck the type of women I might develop a connection with that’s more than sexual. Things are fleeting in my world and I like it that way. I never lie to those women. I’m always upfront about it. They know the deal before they drop their panties. No expectations. No disappointments.”
“What does that have to do with Dom and you?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to do a once and done with my best friend.”
“Rod, you’re letting Rachel screw you up.”
He doesn’t call our motherMom. He never has… not since I’ve been alive. Neither does Rory.
“I’m not,” I spit out.
“You are. She still has the upper hand on you. You’re just blind to it. Rachel’s been dead for five years. She did enough damage when she was alive. Don’t let the woman fuck with your head when she’s six feet under. She isn’t worth it.”
I eye Roark with skepticism. “Hmph.”
“What?”
“What’s your excuse?”
“What do you mean?”
“With women?”
“I don’t have any excuses. I choose to keep it simple,” he argues.
“I thought Zoe—”
“It was fun with Zoe—”
“But you couldn’t commit,” I sneer. “Get off your high horse, big brother, you’re no better than I am. Seems like I’m not the only one Dear Mom is still screwing over.”
Sure, the once and done approach sounds superficial, but when you grew up with a mother like ours, it’s just survival. Rory is the only one who has his shit together.
“I can’t commit to a woman who’s so high maintenance, it becomes a turnoff. I know this is LA—the land of the forever young—but Zoe’s obsession was tiring.”
“What are you saying? You’re out there looking forthe one?” Sarcasm laces my words.
“Rory has set the bar really high. The more time I spend with him and Isobel, the more it becomes clear it’s about finding the right person. His wife was a friend, lover, partner and confidant for years. We both know Isobel was an important, integral part of his life long before things turned romantic,” he pauses and fixes me with a serious stare, “much like Dom is for you.”
CHAPTER 8
Dominika
“Dominika, over here!” Zoe waves.
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning when I walk into The Griddle Café. The place is packed. Hungry patrons are devouring the huge plates piled high with food. My stomach is growling so much, I can hear it over the brouhaha. I weave my way through the tables until I reach the one in the far corner.
“Hey, Zoe!”
We do the air kiss thing and sit down.
“Sorry if it seems like we’re sitting in Kansas, but I was able to snatch the last table when I got here or else it would’ve been at least a half an hour wait.”
“I’d die of hunger by then.”
“So would I,” she laughs.
“My God, you look so well-rested, your makeup is flawless and you’re all dressed up… even on a Saturday.” I, on the other hand, look like I spent exactly two minutes on my face before jumping into a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and Converse shoes.
