Page 62 of Wildest Dreams

I knew Dylan was home, and in a purely convenient coincidence, her mom and soon-to-be stepdad were also in town, so she actually had a babysitter.

Dylan and I had been keeping our distance since the preschool tour, but it was time for her to earn that fat paycheck. I opened our chat box.

Rhyland: Bruce is coming to hand-deliver our TX invitation. Let’s meet him downstairs at Café Europa. Putting a show on for him would help me.

Dylan: What’d you have in mind?

Rhyland: Can I kiss you?

Dylan: I’d literally rather eat my own eyeballs than pretend to enjoy it, but sure. Whatever gets you the deal.

Rhyland: Sorry. This ain’t working anymore. I know you’ve got it hard for me.

Dylan: Hard-ly.

Rhyland: Now you’re just giving me a stiffy.

Dylan: We can always do something about it.

Rhyland: See? You are as consistent as a half-baked muffin.

Dylan: I’m honestly repulsed by how much I’m attracted to you. But rest assured, I don’t like you AT ALL.

Rhyland: I’m attracted to you AND I like you. The liking you part is the problem though. I don’t do relationships.

Dylan: Aw. Are you afraid to catch feelings?

Rhyland: Don’t be so smug, Cosmos. That shit’s contagious.

I shot Bruce a message to meet us downstairs because we were going on a mommy and daddy date. Then I lumbered into my walk-in closet and honest to fucking God had trouble deciding what I was going to wear. The options were dwindling by the day, seeing as I’d started selling shit online to keep afloat. I settled for a beige button-down short-sleeve shirt, olive chinos, and preppy tennis shoes. Then I proceeded to spritz on enough Valentino cologne to drown a small herd of kittens.

Did cats move in prides? Fat chance—they were solitary animals. Anyway, I was unnecessarily anxious because I knew I was going to kiss Dylan Casablancas today.

And I also knew I was going to fucking like it.

Things got progressively more pathetic when I took the elevator down and accidentally hit the button for Dylan’s floor instead of the ground floor. I chalked it up to the fact that I’d spent a ton of time playing nanny to Gravity. Force of habit. Nothing more, nothing less. Still, I was already here, so I might as well say hi to Zeta.

I stepped out and knocked on the door. Zeta flung it open. She was wearing a red fitted dress and a matching lipstick, with an apron. She was a true MILF. A mature version of Dylan. Same high cheekbones, regal nose, thick, fluffy eyebrows, and an endless stream of thick black hair that ran down to her waist like a river.

“Rhyland! Mio figlio!” She threw her arms over my shoulders, octopussing me in a hug and dragging me past the thresholdinto the apartment. She kissed both my cheeks before grabbing my head and examining me. “You look good. Your mother and father are well?”

“Sure.” Who the fuck knows? “You and Marty having fun in the Big Apple?”

“Yes. I just got back from a Broadway show. Now Marty went golfing with old college friends, and I’m baking a cake with Gravity.” She licked her thumb, using it to wipe off the residue lipstick from my cheeks.

“Uncle Rhyrand!” Gravity’s high-pitched voice rang around the apartment. The small human bolted from the kitchen stool she was standing on, climbing my leg like I was a tree. I squirmed as her little fingers dug through my waist, abs, and torso. She managed to get all the way up to my waist before I scooped her up and tossed her in the air until she almost hit the ceiling. With each toss, her giggling became squeakier and more enthralled.

“I told you,” I said.

Toss.

“Uncle Rhyland.”

Toss.

“Is a ticklish.”

Toss.

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