Page 59 of Wildest Dreams

“No.” Dylan shook her head, and when I turned to look at her, I was surprised to see frustrated, angry tears glistening in her eyes. She had the same look she sported yesterday, when I told her Grav should go to preschool. The look of a lioness ready to fight to the death. “Don’t victim-blame yourself. None of it is your fault.”

“I’m not saying it was. But I chose to drink on duty. I chose to smoke pot and get high. I chose to offer myself as a boyfriend-for-hire. I chose to sleep with ninety percent of my clientele. I inserted myself into a highly explosive situation. I could’ve put my business degree to use and worked on Wall Street. Hell, I could’ve still been working with your brother. He offered for us to co-own La Vie en Rogue before he opened it. I opted out. I didn’t want the long hours, the mountains of paperwork, the endless sacrifices. I realized I’d been lying to myself this whole time by saying I enjoyed what I was doing.” My mouth pressed into a thin line. “After it was over, in the shower, I grabbed my suitcase and left. Ubered it from the Hamptons back to Manhattan. That day, I threw away my pot. Made a rule to only drink once a week. Quit my fake-boyfriend business. I started looking into my finances and realized I’d been drowning myself not only in drugs and alcohol but also in big splurges that didn’t match my income. I decided to turn a corner. Do something with myself. Provide people with the opportunity to have a fake date without putting any of the individuals involved into compromising positions.”

“You should’ve gone to the police after the assault.” Her lips twisted in fury. “This is ridiculous. What she did was illegal. She—”

I shook my head. “She was drunk off her ass and an emotional wreck. I’m not making excuses for her—I just didn’t see the point. What can I say? I got a taste of the consequences of my own decisions, and I hated it. All this to say you can’t fall back into working at a bar or at a restaurant in New York like you did back home. And trust me, I get that the familiarity of it is tempting. Not because there’s anything wrong with it. There isn’t. Some people thrive in these careers. But you don’t.”

She flinched, and that was how I knew I’d hit a nerve.

I dug deeper. “You’ve always wanted to become a doctor. You still can. Well-worth-it journeys tend to be uphill. If life’s hard, it means you’re doing it right. Don’t pass up on this preschool. You owe it to yourself and to Gravity. If your kid doesn’t see you chase your own dream, how do you expect them to chase theirs?”

“Rhy…” She clamped her mouth shut. Opened it again. “I’m really sorry—”

“Don’t be.” I put my hand on her knee, noticing her dress had ridden up on the way here. The touch of my rough finger pads against her smooth summer skin made a jolt of energy shoot up my spine. Something tightened behind my abs like a key twisting in its hole, unlocking something feral, and now I knew it wasn’t the late-night burgers.

I had it hard for her.

I withdrew my hand casually, ignoring my rocketing pulse. “Instead of being sorry, take care of your future,” I said stiffly.

“Okay, Daddy.” Dylan rolled her eyes.

“Say that again,” I groaned.

“No. I was being sarcastic. I’d rather stay an orphan.”

I laughed. “Do you want help taking Gravity up?”

“No, thanks. See you in three days.” She popped open the passenger door and rounded the car to get her daughter.

Shit. Her next shift was in three days? Why did it make me sad?

And why couldn’t I wait for the days to tick by?

DYLAN

Cal: How’s your fake fiancé?

Dylan: Being a real pain in the ass.

Cal: And Tucker?

Dylan: So far, so good. Meaning I haven’t seen him in a few days.

Cal: Be careful, Dylan, okay? It’s the same guy who bullied us in high school.

Dylan: Trust me, Dot, there’s nothing I want more than Tucker out of my life.

“Instead of wasting all that time and research on cybersecurity and flu strains, universities need to start looking into whether Nina Dobrev and Victoria Justice are the same person,” Max mumbled, perched over the alcohol rack behind the bar, watching The Vampire Diaries on his phone.

My first time back after four days, and I was finally experiencing a graveyard shift at the Alchemist. It was officially summer, and New York City had decided to kick it off with a huge Central Park event laden with multiple live shows. Other than the random tourists staggering into the bar to purchase overpriced water, we were pretty much alone.

“They’re not the same person, Max,” I chuckled, browsing through my own Instagram for-you page, eyeballs glued to reels of people traveling the world. I especially loved the ones who lived in their vans. Here I was, being a salty bitch about my sweater getting caught in my door handle, when people actually had to drive to their gym to take a shower.

“How’s Faye doing?” I asked.

“Better. Still not discharged, though. There’s a recovery time they want her to take. Four, maybe five weeks before she can come back to work. You still fine to fill in for her?”

“As long as I have childcare,” I confirmed.

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