Page 40 of Luck of the Draw

My heart tripped at that because it was so different than what I got from everyone else. Randy would give me the silent treatment until I’d apologized countless times. Even my mother required multiple apologies before she’d let something go.

I glanced around. “I’m looking for cameras, because this has to be some kind of prank show.”

A frown creased his forehead. It was obvious he was irritated, but I could tell it wasn’t directed at me. “Despite the half a dozen goats roaming around in the woods down there, it’s no prank. Why would it be?”

My face flushed with embarrassment. I tried to pull my hand free, but Dylan’s grip tightened.

“No, Deeandra. No running away this time.”

I stopped pulling and stared up at him, surprised to realize that this was exactly what the adrenaline pumping through my veins was telling me to do. “I’m sorry.”

The corners of his mouth ticked up slightly as his gaze swept over my face. “No apology necessary. But I’m not a threat to you. You don’t have to run to escape me.”

I squeezed his hands as I stared up into his whiskey-colored eyes, and his words sank deep into my soul. “No,” I whispered, “I can see that I don’t.”

He brought our clasped hands up to his mouth and kissed the back of my hand, his eyes never leaving mine. “My turn for an apology. I’m sorry I just dropped the shoes off on your porch without saying anything. You’d run out, in a getaway car, no less—Tyrell was impressed—and when I realized you hadn’t told me about your kids, I was hurt…and well…I didn’t react the way I should have.”

I’d assumed he was upset about the boys, but from the way he said it…my brow shot up. “You were hurt?”

“Dee, what we had…it meant something to me. I thought it meant something to you too.”

Panic filled my head. “It did. I’m sor—”

His free hand lifted and he pressed the tip of his index finger to my lips. The moment he touched me, a fire sparked to life in my gut and my breathing hitched. His eyes hooded, and he inhaled sharply, and I realized I wasn’t the only one affected.

“No,” he said in a husky tone that sent an electrical current skating over my skin. “No more apologies.” He slowly removed his finger, just as I was getting over my astonishment. Just as the compulsion hit me to kiss it or—I really was going crazy—suck on it.

The feeling of loss had returned, leaving me feeling a little empty and cold, but the heat in his eyes burned out any chill.

“Why did you leave, Deeandra?” he asked, his voice low and quiet. “Was it your boys? The age difference? Help me understand.”

“It was both of those things and more.”

He gave me a look that suggested what he wanted was an explanation, not an apology, so I took a deep breath and looked away. Staring into Dylan’s eyes was counterproductive to deep thoughts, because I found myself wanting to fall into him and forget everything else.

“My boys were a huge part of it,” I admitted. “Most men your age—”

“Okay,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I think we need to address that one first, especially if your other objections extend from that.” He gently cupped my chin and turned my face back until he was looking deep into my eyes. “Do you know what I see right now?”

His intense gaze made me squirm, and I started to look away.

“No,” he said, deeper and more commanding than I was used to hearing from him. “Don’t look away. Don’t hide from me, Deeandra.”

Something about the warmth and pleading in his last sentence pulled my gaze back to his. “I see a beautiful woman—inside and out—who is obviously an amazing mother and a good friend. A woman who is sexy as hell and, at the risk of scaring you off, helped me see a light at the end of what has been a very long and dark tunnel. You may be seven years and three months older than me, but—”

I couldn’t hold back a laugh. “That’s pretty exact.”

He grinned. “I would have had it down to the day, but you never told me your actual birthday.”

I grinned back. “February 25.”

His smile spread. “And mine is May 2. Get back to me when I can think straight, and I’ll give you the day count.”

“You can’t think straight?” I asked in a whisper.

It still seemed so impossible that I could affect him like this. Randy’s words, and the cruise ship telemarketing job, and my mother’s good-natured nagging…it had all worn me down until I saw myself as Randy had seen me: as sexy as an old sneaker. But Dylan saw something else, and it was obvious it went deeper than the borrowed dress and heels. I’d asked him enough times.

“Confession,” he said, still staring at me like I was a slice of sprinkle cake, “I’m trying hard to not kiss you right now so we can have this conversation.”

---