The Dom Next Door: The Lost Dom Series

The day Mr. Jones moved in was burned into my mind.

It was an unusually hot, lazy August day when the moving van drove down my street. Even the neighborhood children stopped to see where the giant yellow and blue boxed truck was stopping.

For me, it had been the most exciting thing that had happened to me all summer.

I stood at the living room window and watched excitedly while the movers pulled box after box out of the back of the truck. I let my imagination run wild about who could own all those boxes. I hoped it would be another nice, sweet family with a bunch of adorable kids I could watch grow up.

Unable to stand still in all my excitement, I decided to bake the new neighbors a welcome pie and take it over so I could be the first person in the neighborhood to greet them.

As I stepped out of my house, the warm breeze teased the stray hairs that had fallen out of my loose braid that was pulled over one shoulder. The braids loosened during my cooking, but I paid them no mind. I was just too excited to meet the new neighbors to even care what I looked like.

Balancing the pan filled with hot, sticky pie on a flimsy oven mitt, I eagerly knocked on the door and fidgeted with excitement.

The door creaked open, revealing a large man that practically filled the doorway with his size. Or maybe that was how I felt standing in front of him.

From the look of him, despite his age, he definitely was not a man to be messed with. However, there was a gentleness in his warm, sweet, chocolate-brown eyes as he stared down at me.

My heart sped up until it felt like it would pound out of my chest. My mouth went dry, and my tongue suddenly felt too big to stay behind my lips. Nervously, my tongue darted out to wet my lips. Another flush rushed through me when those eyes followed my nervous movement.

"Why, hello, sweetheart," he greeted me, his sexy lips quirked up in a gorgeous welcoming grin.

His jet-black hair sat in messy waves around his head, making him look much younger and boyish than I knew he had to be. My hands itched to run through it to see if it was as soft as it looked.

It wasn't until he cocked a dark, quizzical eyebrow that I realized I hadn't said anything yet. Swallowing hard, I forced a bright, welcoming smile on my face.

"Hi!" I chimed excitedly. "I'm Rebecca Delaney. I live right next door!"

"Hello, Miss Rebecca. I'm Noah Jones. I live right here," he replied with a wink.

The blush on my cheeks deepened as those warm eyes slid down my body. They missed nothing as they took in the deep purple spaghetti strap shirt and bright green shorts I had thrown on to combat the overly warm August day. The glint in his eyes made my heart flip a little and my stomach tighten into knots.

"What can I do for you, sweetheart?" he asked, giving me a soft reminder that I had come over with a purpose.

"Oh!" I exclaimed with embarrassment. "I made this!"

As I all but shoved the pie into his hands, I had forgotten about the oven mitt to keep my hands from touching the burning hot metal.

"Ow!" I cried, jerking my hand back.

Instinctively, Mr. Jones reached out to catch the pan. A string of the vilest curses I'd ever heard spilled from his lips as he fumbled with the pie before finally letting the pan drop to the ground. The pie landed upside down on his front steps, instantly destroyed and oozing red cherry syrup everywhere. Mr. Jones cradled his burned hand, still cursing and glaring at the mess on his front step.

Cradling my throbbing hand, I stumbled backward with tears of embarrassment stinging my eyes. I turned to run back to my house, intent on hiding under my blankets and never coming out again.

"Stop right there, young lady." Mr. Jones' commanding voice brought my feet to a sudden halt and refused to take me further down the sidewalk.

"Get back here, girl," he demanded.

Once again, of their own accord, my feet took me back to him. The look on his face made my stomach twist in knots as he held out his hand.

"I'm sorry that I dropped your pie," I whispered shamefully.

"You hurt your hand, didn't you?" he asked, ignoring my apology about the pie as if it didn't matter.

I hid my hands behind my back, for some reason not wanting him to see the burn.

"Answer me, young lady. I don't like to ask twice," Mr. Jones growled.

I felt my stomach clench anxiously as I slowly held my hand out to him. Right over the tips of my fingers sat a bright red burn. Having burned myself several times over the years, I knew what a bad injury looked like. Thankfully, this burn was relatively minor.

I looked up at him with the intent of telling him that. But his sweet brown eyes had hardened, and he didn't seem interested in any arguments from me. I bit my lip and kept silent as I instinctively understood what he wanted from me.

He held out one big hand that I knew would easily dwarf my smaller one. Hesitantly, I laid my hand on his allowing him to inspect the damage. He looked at the fingers for a moment before turning my hand over, making sure not to miss a single wound.

"Come inside. I have a first aid kit in the kitchen," he instructed me.

Shocked, I tried to jerk my hand back, but he wouldn't let it go. He pinned me with his no-nonsense gaze again.

"Oh!" I breathed out in response, my body suddenly warmed by his strength. "It's okay. I—"

Mr. Jones' eyes narrowed on me. "Young lady, what did I just say?"

"I… Ummm," I stuttered out, shrinking back a bit at Mr. Jones's firm tone.

Swallowing the bit of anxiety that clogged my throat, I tried to speak again. However, the words that spilled out hadn't been the ones I was thinking of.

"You said to follow you inside," I replied meekly.

"Good girl," he praised.

He gave me a smile that melted the anxiety away and made me happy to have kept my protests to myself.

Stepping out of my way, he waved me inside. I'd been in this place several times when the Kenseys had owned it. However, with Mr. Jones living in it, the house took on a different vibe. More… intense, stark, and overbearing, yet there was a sense of underlining comfort. A small part of me still wanted to run away and hide underneath my blankets with my stuffed penguin, Leroy. Yet another part wanted to stand still and soak up everything I could until it completely consumed me.

Neither desire I understood.

Mr. Jones put his hand on my lower back to guide me through the house toward the kitchen.

I could feel the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of my shirt, and my entire body, mind, and soul-centered on that feeling as if it had become my world.

When he maneuvered me to the nearest bar stool, I almost whimpered at the loss of his warmth as he walked away. He swept around the counter, opened a box, and grabbed out a small white container with big red letters on it. He reached out for my hand with a silent expecting look.

"Oh! I can handle this part!" I insisted.

Frowning at me, Mr. Jones silently waited for me to comply. Once more, I laid my hand in his and watched as he looked over each red mark that had already begun to fade.

I smiled happily, excited that he could see I was not hurt too badly. But when I looked up proudly, Mr. Jones was still frowning at my palm.

Slowly, he touched every scar visible on my hand and arm. Despite the heat, goosebumps burst across my skin, sending a tiny shiver down my back.

I was so confused by my body's reaction... but I also didn't want him to stop. There weren't a lot of scars, but Mr. Jones found every one of them; his frown growing deeper each time.

"Are you just learning to cook, hon?" he asked gently despite the look on his face.

"No, Sir," I answered, my voice sounding breathless even to my own ears. "I've been cooking since I was six."

He touched the most recent scar, a rather nasty grease burn on my forearm.

"I'm very accident-prone," I told him with a giggle.

*** I AM CURRENTLY RE-EDITING THIS BOOK AND GETTING READY FOR THE NEXT INSTALLMENT IN THE Lost Dom SERIES. FEEL FREE TO FOLLOW ALONG!***