Page 7 of Wildest Dreams

“Better take your suitcases out first. The garage elevator is small and takes forever.”

I hated that he was helping me. Hated that I was frazzled enough to accept said help. And I hated that I looked like a mess when all this was unfolding.

Rhyland got out, hurled all six of my suitcases and duffel bags onto the sidewalk, and stopped a well-built Amazon delivery guy, convincing him to clear out the lane so he could push mycar into the building’s parking lot. They both pushed the trunk, rolling it into the underground garage. I perched Gravity on top of a suitcase, her legs straddling the handle, and deposited her iPad, clad in a butterfly-shaped case, into her hands. I put her kitty-eared headphones on her ears. Her face lit up at the sight of Caitie’s Classroom. Then I went and retrieved my broken phone from the road.

With a mixture of humiliation and mortification, I watched Rhyland and the delivery man work. When the car was safely tucked inside the garage, Rhyland reappeared through the lobby. He looked significantly less put-together, one silky strand of his sandy hair loosening from his man bun and falling across his eye. His cheekbones were marred pink. I almost felt bad as he approached us. I opened my mouth to thank him.

“Is there a reason why the child is holding a penis?” He flicked his gaze to Gravity, who was hugging Mr. Mushroom on the suitcase while she watched her show intently.

The child. He talked about her as if she were a problem in need of fixing.

“It’s not a penis. It’s Mr. Mushroom,” I corrected haughtily.

He gave me a flat look punctuated with a half-moon smirk that threatened to light my panties aflame.

Despite my aversion to him now, I’d always had a thing for Rhyland Coltridge.

A happy-to-get-on-all-fours-for-you-at-a-moment’s-notice kind of thing.

Which obviously didn’t help matters.

“It’s a long story, okay?” I picked my daughter up again, cradling her head in the crook of my neck. “Anyway, thanks for the help. You can go back to being New York’s favorite fuckboy.” I mouthed the last word voicelessly so Grav wouldn’t hear, shooing him away with my hand.

“Are you shaming me for being a sex worker?” He arched a thick eyebrow, one shade darker than his hair.

“No. I’m shaming you for being a douchebag.”

“Why? History dictates it’s your favorite taste in men.” He chuckled brusquely.

1–10 to the home team.

My ex, Tucker, was definitely a walking, talking condom advertisement.

“You know, Rhyland.” I parked my hip over a tall suitcase, mustering every acting skill in my body to appear self-composed and nonchalant. “There aren’t enough synonyms in the English language to describe how much I hate you.”

This didn’t contradict my desire for him. I also desired three Valiums and an entire mango key lime cheesecake and still knew they had the power to destroy me.

“Flattered.” He put a hand to his chest, bowing down with flourish. “I don’t think there’s a word for how I feel for you, but it’s somewhere between disdain and total boredom.”

“Indifferent,” I offered charitably.

He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “See? And everyone thinks you’re just a pretty face. Dylan Casablancas, a walking dictionary, ladies and gents.”

“All I took from this is that you think I’m pretty, and while I agree, you don’t stand a chance. I’m done dating losers.”

“That’s a bit of a pickle, sweetheart.”

“Why?”

“I doubt anyone who isn’t a loser would have you.”

Just when I thought I was going to assault my brother’s best friend in my first hour in Manhattan, we were interrupted by a real-life cowboy. He was ambling toward us, accompanied by another suited man, waving a hand at us.

“Howdy, Coltridge.”

The man looked as out of place in New York as a Disney princess in a BDSM club, with his Western hat and embellished shirt, cowboy boots, and worn-out denim. He gulped in the scene of us—the suitcases, Gravity, me, and Rhyland—his wide-set mouth breaking into a delighted grin. He looked to be in his early sixties and in excellent shape. A thick gold ring sparkled on his wedding finger.

“Marshall,” Rhyland greeted back with an easy smile, but I noticed he cleared his throat. “You’re early.”

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