In Love With Him

Chapter 12

Dominic’s POV

The morning sun was brutal—blazing hot and unforgiving—but I didn’t care. Sweat poured down my back, my chest, soaking the waistband of my workout shorts. Each punch I threw landed with a dull, satisfying thud against the practice dummy I’d set up in the backyard.

Jab. Jab. Right hook. Kick.

I exhaled hard and reset my stance.

This was how I kept the darkness out—controlled violence. Letting my muscles remember their training, letting my body take over when my mind wanted to spin off in ten different directions. Lately, that direction always seemed to point back to her.

Kennedy.

I tightened my jaw and threw a sharp combo. Jab. Jab. Hook. Uppercut.

It didn’t help. Even with sweat in my eyes and adrenaline pumping, all I could picture was her face when she looked up at me in that bathroom. Or when she backed up toward those stairs and I caught her. Or even worse—last night in her bed, trying to act like I didn’t feel like s**t for making her cry.

And then this morning… God. I didn’t mean to look. But I did. Just a glimpse through her open door, and now it was burned into my brain. Her long, bare legs. That tight shirt hugging every curve. Her lips slightly parted when she saw me in the backyard, thinking I didn’t notice.

I saw.

I noticed everything.

“f**k,” I muttered, slamming one last kick into the dummy before wiping my face on a towel draped over the fence. My whole body was slick with sweat, my arms burning from the hour-long session. I grabbed my gloves and headed toward the house, the sliding glass door cool against my palms as I slid it open.

The second I stepped inside, I was hit with cold air and the faint smell of toast.

And there she was—my mom. Standing in the kitchen, keys in one hand, sunglasses perched on top of her head like she belonged in a Nancy Meyers movie.

She turned at the sound of the door. “Jesus, Dom,” she said with a slight smirk, eyeing my glistening torso. “Tryin’ to give the neighbors a show?”

I smirked and made a beeline for the fridge. “They’re welcome.”

“Hydrate,” she added, half amused, half maternal.

I pulled out a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and chugged half of it in one go. My pulse started to slow. My head started to clear. Then—

“Oh,” she said, grabbing her purse from the counter. “I’m taking Kennedy out school clothes shopping. Thought it’d be nice to do something girly, just the two of us.”

Kennedy.

Of course.

My fingers tightened around the water bottle.

“She agreed?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“Surprisingly, yes.” Mom smiled like she knew it was a miracle. “I think she’s starting to warm up to me.”

I nodded absently and took another swig of water, trying to focus on anything but the mental image of Kennedy in a changing room, slipping in and out of clothes. Lacy things. Tight jeans. Dresses.

Goddamnit.

“She’s a sweet girl,” my mom added as she slung her purse over her shoulder. “Strong. You two actually have more in common than you think.”

I raised an eyebrow at her.

She ignored it and asked, “Is there anything you need while we’re out?”

“Uh…” I blinked, completely thrown by the question. “No. I’m good.”

“Alright, well, behave,” she said, giving me a pointed look. “Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” I muttered with a crooked grin.

She rolled her eyes and headed for the front door.

I stood there for a minute in the empty kitchen, the hum of the fridge the only sound.

Kennedy was going to be out. With my mom. At the mall. Trying on clothes. Surrounded by other guys. Guys who’d see her. Look at her.

And she’d look like that.

I rubbed the back of my neck, annoyed at how irritated I suddenly felt.

Was this what jealousy felt like?

I dropped my head back against the fridge and sighed.

“Get a grip, Dominic,” I whispered to myself. “She’s your stepsister.”

But no matter how many times I said it, it never stopped the fire in my blood when she was around.

And God help me—I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.

The second the front door clicked shut, silence filled the house like fog.

I stood in the kitchen for a moment, just breathing. Still sweaty, still shirtless, still too aware of the fact that Kennedy was out… in public… trying on clothes that would undoubtedly make my brain explode.

Nope. I needed a distraction. Immediately.

I grabbed another bottle of water from the fridge, chugged it, then headed upstairs to take a freezing cold shower.

Maybe that would help.

Maybe it wouldn’t.

Fifteen minutes later, I was clean, changed, and lying on my bed in mesh shorts and a t-shirt, staring at the ceiling fan like it might hold all the answers to the universe.

It didn’t.

Still hot.

Still bothered.

Still thinking about her.

I groaned and sat up, swiping my phone off the nightstand. I checked socials, messaged a couple people, scrolled i********: for a distraction.

Nope. Just a bunch of bikini pics that reminded me of her again.

I tossed the phone onto the mattress and stood, restless.

There was only one thing left to do—work on my car.

If anything could keep my head straight, it was my ‘69 Camaro.

Back outside in the driveway was hotter than earlier, I peeled off my shirt again after five minutes. I grabbed my tools and started tinkering with the intake manifold. Nothing major, just tuning. I turned on the small bluetooth speaker near my tool box and let the low hum of rock music fill the space.

Focus.

Torque. Adjust. Realign.

I lost track of time, half-crawled under the hood with grease on my forearms when I caught a whiff of something faint… sweet, warm and clean.

My head turned toward the end of the driveway.

Nothing.

Still… I swear, for a second, I could smell Kennedy’s shampoo. That stupid coconut scent that had clung to the bathroom air after everytime she’d showered. I shook my head like it would rattle her loose.

“Goddamn,” I muttered under my breath, tightening a bolt a little harder than necessary. “Get out of my f*****g head.”

I wasn’t this guy. I wasn’t the obsessed, daydreaming, girl-next-door fantasy type. I had girls—on rotation. Hot, willing, experienced girls who didn’t make me second-guess my sanity.

So why the hell was I thinking about the way her lips had parted last night when she almost got kissed?

Why was I remembering her voice—soft, cracking—when she said, “It would’ve been my first real kiss.”

Why was I picturing her curled in bed, eyes wet, the way she’d looked at me like I was the only one who saw her?

God.

Was this guilt?

Was this want?

Was this danger?

Yes. To all of it.

I grabbed a rag and wiped the sweat from my face, stepping back from the car. I needed break.

I walked to the end of the driveway and stood there, staring out at the hazy summer afternoon like it held some kind of solution.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

But I knew what I didn’t want.

I didn’t want Kennedy falling for someone else.

I didn’t want some kid in homeroom thinking he had a shot with her.

I didn’t want her first real kiss to be with anyone but… me.

“f**k,” I muttered again.

I needed help.

Or a lobotomy.

Maybe both.