Page 64 of Wildest Dreams

“All done.” I dropped the brown, yellow, and pink markers back into the box. “You’re as good as new.”

“Thank you. I wove you.” Gravity hugged me.

What was with the Casablancas family and being ultra-affectionate? And why couldn’t Dylan touch me? She was the only one whose hands I wanted on me anyway.

I patted Gravity’s back awkwardly. I still wasn’t thrilled about befriending a toddler.

“Did you…draw smileys on her Band-Aid?” A voice coming from the hallway made my head snap up.

Shit. Now this was a sight worthy of being drawn in the Sistine Chapel.

Dylan, all made up, with a brown-and-white polka-dot summer dress offering a deep slit and a peek at her long, shapely legs. She’d done her hair in big, fluffy waves and put shimmer on her cheekbones, and she had that glittery thing on her lips and her inner eyes that made her look all dewy.

“It’s a giraffe and a donut,” I corrected matter-of-factly. “I will not have my work thoughtlessly disparaged by an amateur.”

“I didn’t realize we were…commissioning your work.” Dylan swallowed a laugh.

“You ran out of fancy Band-Aids.” I stood up slowly, since all my blood had rushed to my dick.

Dylan just stared at me with a mixture of awe and softness. It was the first time the grumpy woman had oozed warmth toward me, and not the kind that wished to set me on fire.

“Ready to hit the road?” I glanced at my lowly Cartier.

Finally, Dylan shook her head, snapping out of her weird reverie. “Um, sure. Mama, is that okay? It’s five minutes from here and shouldn’t take long.”

“Tesoro mia, of course. You go have your fun. Make sure to drink a glass of wine. You deserve it.”

DYLAN

Can you hear this sound, Dylan? It is the sound of feminism leaving your body. Because you just witnessed Rhyland Coltridge being amazing to your child.

Fatherly, even.

But you need to reel in your desperation. You’ve already made it clear you want to screw him, and he passed on the offer. Multiple times, in fact. And considering he’s a sexual-assault survivor, it’d be nice not to treat him like a piece of meat.

“Dylan,” Rhyland hissed impatiently—for what must have been the thousandth time, judging by his tone.

We were in the elevator heading downstairs to Café Europa. I couldn’t bear to look at him. Only now, it wasn’t just because he was hot; it was also because this hotness was attached to a man my child absolutely adored.

But he was wrong. I wasn’t catching feelings. I was catching hormones.

“Hmm?” I feigned boredom.

“I just gave you a rundown of the entire plan.” He gave me a funny “what is wrong with you?” look. “Were you even listening?”

“Nope. Was too busy fantasizing about you moving out of the building. Repeat it.”

He rubbed his hands together, boyishly focused. “We’re going to beat Bruce there. He’s a punctual motherfucker, but we’re still early. So what we’ll do is we’ll kiss at the exact minute he walks in, and that way, he’ll think he’s walking in on us being lovey-dovey and shit.”

“Remind me why he couldn’t just bring the invitation to your penthouse.”

“Because you’re supposed to live there with me, and the most feminine thing I own is a life-size painting of Ursula Andress butt naked, and I don’t think that counts.”

That warranted me slapping his arm with my purse. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing. There wasn’t a floor-to-ceiling-size painting, so I had to settle.”

“Well, what if he’s a few minutes late?” I challenged.

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