Page 18 of Luck of the Draw

“Of course,” she said with a wave of her hand. “She took art classes from me after she graduated from high school.”

I remembered Sam’s art phase, before she got pregnant and her husband and mother convinced her that pursuing art wasn’t practical for a new mother.

“I think you know everyone in this town,” Dylan said, shaking his head and sounding partially in awe.

“Not everyone,” she said with a laugh. “But perhaps more than most.” She smiled up at him. “I like to think I help fate weave its tapestry. Sometimes the answers we’re looking for come to us when we least expect them.”

He stared at her for several seconds, and then his hand tightened around mine.

She turned her attention to me. “You two run along. I’ll take care of Samantha.”

With that, she wandered off.

I still felt guilty about leaving Sam, but I knew she’d want me to go. I could just send her a text when we reached Dylan’s car.

We grabbed my clutch and flats from the table, and Dylan led me through the service entrance, out to a parking lot and to an older model Jeep with a canvas top.

“It’s not much,” he said, and I heard a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

“I drive a fifteen-year-old Toyota, so no complaints from me.”

He smiled at me and stopped next to the passenger door and opened it. I was about to step up onto the running board, but I released a tiny yelp of surprise as he grabbed my waist and lifted me up onto the seat like I weighed nothing.

His hand cupped the side of my face, and he smiled. “What kind of prince would I be if I let you climb up inside?”

“So you’re a prince?” I teased.

“I think I have to be if you’re Cinderella.”

I leaned forward and kissed him, shocked that I wasn’t embarrassed or feeling shy. He made me feel comfortable. Like I was sexy and desirable. His belief filled me with confidence.

“Take me home, Prince Dylan,” I murmured against his mouth.

“Anything for you, Cinderella.”

Chapter Six

Dylan

I obviously hadn’t done muchin the way of thinking, because it hadn’t occurred to me until I was on the road that it was purely ridiculous to bring a woman like her back to my crappy one-bedroom apartment with the water stain over the bed that looked like a face in certain lighting. In a moment of loneliness or insanity—I wasn’t sure which—I’d named it Tony. I no longer lived with my parents and sister, which was a serious plus, but even so. It wouldn’t exactly set the scene.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I shot a look at her, taking in the lush mass of her hair, those soft pillowy lips, and the bright splash of excitement and hunger in her eyes. I wanted to taste her, to see what her face looked like when she moaned in pleasure, which made it harder to choke out, “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go back to your place? My apartment’s not much to look at.”

I thought I saw a glimmer of alarm in her eyes before I shifted my gaze back out the windshield. “No. We can’t go there.”

Something about the way she said it, so definite and unbending, made me wonder what she was hiding.

“You got a doll room in there or something?”

She sputtered out a laugh. “No. Is that a thing? Because I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“Oh, believe me, it is. Both of my aunts had one, but Aunt Jackie’s was bigger, and her dolls all had porcelain heads. I had nightmares about them. Finally, my dad marched me in there one day and knocked one of their heads open like a pinata. He said, ‘They come at you in the night, Dylan, you bust their heads in. Simple as that.’”

“I’ll bet Aunt Jackie wasn’t pleased.”

“Damn straight. They argued until Sunday, but Sunday is family spaghetti day. No one breaks the spaghetti truce.”

“The spaghetti truce,” she said thoughtfully. “I like that. Maybe I’ll try that with…my mom.”

---