Page 41 of Wildest Dreams

Dylan, the rebel. The dreamer. The potty-mouthed kid who grew up to be Staindrop’s hottest bombshell. Dylan, the smart. Dylan, the impulsive. Dylan, the mother. The daughter.

The sister, I reminded myself. Your best friend’s.

But it was too late. Her hair was so richly dark it was burnished red under the superficial light, her beauty so violent it threatened to detonate like a supernova, leaving stardust everywhere. I couldn’t help it. I wanted her in the same way a starving man wanted his next meal. Some men were into ass, boobs, or legs. Me? I was a spine kind of person. And she had plenty of it.

“Tucker can go fuck himself a million times over,” she whispered, tapering her eyes. “If taking a job at this joint means I’ll be able to afford a good nanny, nourishing food, and books for my daughter, a better future for her, I’ll do it. No one—not Tucker, not Row, not my mother, not you—will stand in my way. There isn’t a thing I won’t do for my daughter. You’d best remember that.”

RHYLAND

Row: Are you taking good care of my sister?

Rhyland: Good enough that I demand a raise.

Row: What’d she get herself into?

Rhyland: It’s her story to tell.

Row: Are you already this loyal to her?

Rhyland: No, fuckface, I’m just too lazy/unbothered to type all that shit down.

I called Tate as soon as I left Dylan’s apartment. He answered on the third ring.

“Do you have a minute?” I grunted out.

“No,” Tate said flatly, “though I’m sure it won’t stop you. It never has in the past. What do you want?”

“You still hold the majority of shares at Beaufort?” I cut straight to the chase, stepping into the elevator and trying tokeep my temper in fucking check. Tucker had hurt Dylan. And while she wasn’t my woman, she was still a woman, and he was still a man, and this whole thing was still majorly fucked up.

“Who wants to know?” Tate inquired taciturnly.

“Me, fucker. Who else?”

He made an uncommitted grumble. “How—or more importantly, why—should I help you with that?”

“I need you to get two people fired. Stassia and Tara from the marketing department. Low-level folk. Easily replaceable.” I punched the button taking the elevator down, not up. My subconscious had already made a decision that would probably land me a night in the slammer. Ah well. You only lived once, and that was one experience to cross off my bucket list.

“I see.” His icy drawl gave my ear frostbite. The crane descended down. “Not that I ever miss a chance to ruin someone’s day, but may I ask what they did to earn such a visceral reaction from the laziest pothead I know?”

“They basically invited Dylan over for a job interview just to bully and belittle her,” I blustered before considering Dylan might not want me to air her shit publicly. I usually thought things through before I spoke. This was out of character for me. But so was spending ten fucking hours straight with a three-year-old. If this was what they meant by “doing some growing,” then no, thanks. I wanted to stay mentally fifteen.

“And you care because…” Tate yawned.

“Row,” I scoffed. “I care because she is my best friend’s sister, and he’s riding my ass about taking care of her while she settles in.”

“She’s a big girl.”

“Did I ask you for an observation?” I inquired.

“And as much as we like Row—which is not very much in my case and a decent amount in yours—you shouldn’t care that much about his grown-ass sibling.”

In the back of my head, I knew he had a point, but I refused to see it. Unlike him, I was selfish but not sociopathic. I still managed to feel bad for other people.

“Are you going to do it or not?” I snapped.

“I’ll see to it, but you’re going to owe me, and I always collect,” Tate said crisply.

“Yes, I remember. Forty-two percent interest, right?”

---