Chapter Eight
Bethany
I walked to my car as fast as I could go. How could I suggest that I wanted to date Dylan?
There was no way he’d heard me. Or if he did, there was no way that it mattered. He had other things on his mind—like getting tangled up in some domestic dispute and thrown in a holding cell overnight. He wasn't thinking about taking me out on a date.
Dylan wasn't thinking about me.
Though he was definitely following me. I spun around at the bumper of my car. "Do you need a ride home?"
Dylan smiled and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I can always call someone."
I glanced at my beat-up car. It wasn't old, but it wasn't well-cared for and it certainly was not a sports car. And I knew for a fact the front seat was littered with to-go coffee cups.
"After all you did, coming all the way down here." Dylan held out his hand for me to shake. "I just wanted a chance to thank you before you disappeared again."
I shook his hand and had to tug my fingers away from our grasp first. The light caress was enough to send sparks through me.
"I can give you a ride home," I said.
Dylan opened the driver's side door for me and waited until I slipped inside before he shut it securely behind me. He jogged around and jumped into the passenger side just after I'd swiped all the coffee cups and flung them in the backseat.
"Good little car," he said. "Doesn't give you anything to worry about, does it?"
I pulled out onto the street. "Except it's supposed to be one of the most stolen cars of all time."
Dylan gave me an appraising smile. "You know a lot about cars?"
I sighed. "I'm supposed to by now. My big case is focused around auto theft."
"I'm sorry to take you away from it this morning," Dylan said.
I looked at my watch. "No, it's all right. It was about time for a break."
He gave me directions to his house but then we mostly drove in silence. I felt nervous even though that was ridiculous. I was the one who had helped Dylan out. I was giving him a ride home.
Why were the butterflies in my stomach?
Then I pulled into his driveway, and the butterflies turned to sparks of panic. Dylan lived in a state-of-the-art loft. As he directed, I pointed my junkie little car to the valet. I was able to take a deep breath when the valet opened a private garage door for us and waved me through. He only gave my car one distasteful glance.
"You can park next to the Aston Martin," Dylan said.
I parked my dented car and got out cautiously. My matte suit stood out against the chrome and shine of Dylan's life. I tugged on my store-bought blazer. Under the artfully placed lights of the custom garage, I finally noticed that all Dylan's clothes were tailored. Despite having spent the night in a holding cell, Dylan looked like he was ready to jet off to Ibiza.
"I could have just dropped you off out front," I said.
Dylan held out his hand. "I think I owe you a little more than that."
"No charges were pressed. They would have let you go anyway." I skirted around a cherry red Corvette that gleamed brighter than a ruby. I felt as if one breath would smudge it.
He caught my hand and tugged me toward a private elevator. "Let me at least make you a cup of coffee. Something for your trouble."
I couldn't come up with a convincing argument before the elevator. We flew upward so quickly that my stomach sailed right through my shoes and kept dropping.
What was I doing going to Dylan Wylde's loft in the middle of the day?
No one had seen us. It was common for me to leave the office on research and interview trips. I wasn't supposed to be in a meeting for another forty-five minutes.
My thoughts stopped, my head as hollow as the ding at Dylan's floor. He lived on the tenth floor; not the penthouse but close enough.
"My company owns the place," Dylan said. "Now that I'm out on my own, they've given me six months to find a new place."
"Seems fair." I swallowed hard and took in the stunning cityscape view. We were just in the hallway, not yet in one of only two lofts on the floor.
Dylan tugged opened the doors to an enormous, open loft. Well-placed lamps and hanging chandeliers denoted a lounge area with a bar, a dining table large enough for twelve, and a huge sunken living room with curving built-in couches. A gourmet kitchen gleamed in the corner, all dark marble and heavy-stained wood.
He saw me eyeing the dark corner and chuckled. "So, I don't cook very much but I do make a life-saving cup of coffee."
Dylan led me to the kitchen, flipped on a dozen sparkling lights, and settled me on a high black leather stool. He then proceeded to scoop fresh coffee grounds into a ceramic pour-over and made my coffee fresh-dripped into my mug.
"I know it looks fussy but it's really easy and tastes one hundred percent better," Dylan said.
I realized I had been staring and shook my head. "Sorry. I'm just, I've just… I've got a lot on my mind. Are all those cars downstairs yours?"
"Ninety percent. A few are true collectibles that I babysit for a generous fee." Dylan set up his own pour-over coffee and leaned against the black marble counter. "My life looks a lot cooler than it is."
"That doesn't matter." I was about to confess my professional interest in the sports car but first I took a sip of coffee. "Oh, my god. This is the best coffee I've ever had."
Dylan laughed. "I'm glad you like it. Though one cup of coffee doesn't feel like a fair trade for what you did for me. Thank you for believing me."
I blinked. It had never crossed my mind to doubt Dylan. There was something about him that I trusted. Despite the fact that he lived a flashy, semi-fake life, I felt like I knew Dylan.
The surety that accompanied that thought made my insides twist. Was I really the silly, naive girl who was going to fall for one of his smooth lines?
I glanced around the loft, looking for anything to distract me. "Is that a garden over there?"
Dylan swung around the counter and followed me across the open loft. "The maid's the one responsible for all that green. Joey set it up when I moved in."
"Is that basil? And rosemary?" I marveled at the bright, healthy plants thriving far above the city.
"There's also oregano and marjoram and those are cherry tomatoes." Dylan smiled fondly at the plants.
"To remind you of your time in Italy?" I asked.
Dylan blinked. "Did I tell you about that?"
I had read it somewhere on the Internet when I was checking up on him. I turned again and tried to change the subject. "Where's the bedroom?"
Dylan's laugh made my cheeks blaze but my awkward question did the trick. "The bedroom's up there."
A heavy iron frame encased a smaller room with wall-to-wall shelves. The music selection ranged in medium, but vinyl dominated. Two comfy arm chairs were situated the ideal distance from space-age looking speakers. Up above was a railing that surrounded Dylan's bedroom. A narrow staircase wound up and around the frame, the stairs looking like they were suspended on air.
"A loft in a loft," I said.
"You can climb up there and take a look," Dylan said. "Let me make you another cup of coffee. Maybe then you'll be brave enough to go into my bedroom. I mean, climb up those stairs."
"You listen to opera?" I asked, desperate for another conversation change. A stack of opera records lay outside the neatly filed rows.
Dylan cleared his throat as if he didn't know how to explain their presence. "Yeah, those are mine. Another habit I picked up abroad."
"Do you speak Italian fluently enough to understand the words?" I asked. "I'm no good at languages myself."
"No." Dylan concentrated on spooning out the right amount of coffee grounds. "I speak conversational Italian. What I like about opera is that the words are secondary. Makes it easier for me to concentrate."
I edged past the inviting music room and took Dylan's words as an invitation to look at the drafting table set up in the corner. Intricate plans and fluid sketches of fast automobiles were spread across the surface. When Dylan wasn't working on cars, he was plotting improvements.
"Are you designing your own car?" I asked.
Dylan cleared his throat again. "Nah. Too expensive. Plus, the ones they make these days are awfully fun to play with."
"What's with boys and cars?" I asked. Dylan suddenly reminded me of a childhood friend. "I knew a boy once and all he did was draw pictures of cars. He carried around a socket wrench like it was a good luck charm."
"A gear head like me. I did the same thing." Dylan strolled over to pour fresh coffee in my mug. "And what were you into as a child?"
"Reading. Researching. Speaking of, I better get back to my office." My feet refused to move.
"Wait. Please, wait. I need your help on something." Dylan balanced his coffee on the drafting table stool and ran to the other side of the music room.
I followed curiously and found him rummaging through a large closet. He pulled out two sports coats and a handful of bright shirts.
"Joey keeps giving me shirts, telling me I need to brighten up my wardrobe. Are these too much? Keep in mind, the client I'm meeting is European and not afraid of a little color." Dylan spread the clothes out over a curved leather settee.
I stepped toward them gingerly, fully aware that I was standing in Dylan's dressing room. There were no walls in the loft but there was a heavy oriental rug. Everything smelled of aftershave and a ghostly whiff of sandalwood. Intoxicating.
I shook my head to clear it and then gestured at my plain business suit. "I'm not one to ask about fashion."
"Are you kidding? You're the epitome of sexy professional." Dylan's gaze left the silk ties and clashed with mine.
I felt butterflies all over my body. "What look are you going for?"
"Practical, hardworking, but rich enough that I don't really need the work. These high-profile clients like to feel as if I'm doing them a favor." Dylan gave me a pained look. "It's messed up, I know."
I tugged a silk tie from his hands. "No. It makes perfect sense. We are told to dress for the jury."
"By the way, have I thanked you for saving me from a jury?" Dylan tossed the other ties over the settee but held on to the one I had grabbed.
"It was nothing," I tried to explain again.
But nothing explained why I didn't let go of that silk tie. Why did I let Dylan pull me closer until his smile was inches from my own nervous lips?
Then he kissed me.
Actually, I have no idea whose lips moved first. I might have tipped forward, thrown off balance by physical attraction. All I knew was that for a split second his smile was pressed against my lips.
I moved my lips to speak and was lost.
Kissing Dylan flooded my brain with summer sunshine. I felt like a barefoot girl waiting to plunge into warm waters.
"What was that for?" I gasped, coming up for air.
Dylan smiled. "Thank you."