Page 30 of Wildest Dreams

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’ve spent the past few days obsessively looking for a job and putting Grav in front of the TV,” she explained. “She didn’t do anything fun. And she misses her granny and Marty. I feel like the worst mom in the world.”

“In the world?” I snorted, pushing off the wall, striding toward the foot of the clawed bath and taking a seat on the edge of it. I reached down to touch the water, watching the suds disperse as they met my skin. “Bitch, please. You’re not even top twenty thousand worst mothers in the state. What about that asshole woman from Westchester who killed her kid and called 911 after a month?”

No comment. More star-watching. It was the first time I’d seen the seductive, feisty Dylan Casablancas being contemplative and vulnerable.

Finally, she opened her mouth. “I have a job interview tomorrow at eleven. I need you to babysit Grav.”

Shit. I knew it was coming, but I’d pushed it to the back of my mind.

I worked my jaw back and forth. “I’m not good with ki—”

“We have an agreement.” She cut me off, whipping her head around to look at me. “And I know you won’t let me down, since you need me on your arm for Row’s spice-brand event.”

She had me there, and she knew it.

Dylan soldiered on. “I would also appreciate it if you could build her toddler bed. It’s in a box in the guest room. And you’ll need to do my groceries. I canceled Row’s auto-deliveries, because they’re full of ingredients I don’t use. I’ve been so caught up with job hunting I don’t even have milk.”

This Bruce Marshall plan had better work, or I was basically paying $10K a week to be Dylan’s servant.

“Whatever,” I said. “What’s the job?”

If Dylan felt self-conscious about talking to me while stark naked under those damn persistent bubbles, she didn’t let on. “A marketing intern position at Beaufort. I’m not sure it’s enough to keep us afloat once our arrangement expires, but I have to start somewhere.” She turned her head back to the sky.

I didn’t want to sound like a bigger asshole than I already was, but I couldn’t think of one damn reason why a twenty-six-year-old woman who’d poured diner coffee her whole life would be called in for an interview at one of the world’s largest fashion brands, second only to Chanel.

It wasn’t that Dylan wasn’t great—it was just that you couldn’t see all those things through her résumé.

“I’ll be there,” I confirmed. “Is there anything in the sky I should know about? A UFO? A crashing plane? The apocalypse?”

Please say the apocalypse. That way, I won’t have to babysit tomorrow.

Her reply came somber and off guard. “You know…ever since I gave birth, I’ve stopped dreaming,” she croaked out, her eyes still stuck on the sky. “I spend my days either working or with Gravity. And I love her. I truly do. But being a single mother is the loneliest existence one can have. Between taking care of her, meeting her needs, working, tidying up, making food, and doing the dishes, I barely have time to think. It’s so exhausting that by the time my head hits the pillow, I’m too tired to dream. And I miss my dreams. So every night, before I go to bed, I always look at the stars and dream in my head while I’m wide awake.”

Well, fuck. Now I felt bad.

“What do you dream about?” I murmured around the figurative foot I’d shoved into my mouth.

She parked her chin on her curled fists. “Lazy weekends on the beach. Traveling. Dancing with friends. Going back to school.”

I couldn’t help but notice she hadn’t mentioned a relationship.

I nodded. “Wild dreams, huh?”

“The wildest.”

Silence stretched between us. She was still looking at the stars when she asked, “Is that all? The water’s getting cold.”

“Yup. See you tomorrow, Cosmos.” I saw my way out.

She didn’t respond to her new nickname. The one I made up on the spot.

She wanted her dream to last a little longer before she went to sleep.

RHYLAND

Whoever said kids didn’t come with a manual had obviously never met Dylan Casablancas.

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