Page 9 of Wildest Dreams

“We need to talk.” He hoisted the duffel bags onto his shoulders, herding the rest of my suitcases toward the main entrance of the building.

It was a prewar mid-rise with stunning white arches and columns. The lobby had gray-veined checkered black-and-white limestone, and the unmanned front desk and mailboxes were made of sleek, black-painted wood. The elevators were old-school, a black wrought iron cage surrounding the wooden doors. The place had a European quality to it, and for the first time since I’d started this journey, I got giddy.

“Please.” I massaged my temples. “No more talking.”

“Mommy has a headache,” Gravity murmured sweetly, adjusting her iPad so it perched on my chest.

Mommy also really needed to pee. And eat. And savor three mimosas.

“Mommy needs to do Uncle Rhyland a big, big favor.” Rhyland’s wolfish glare pinned me with deliberate foul intent, his raspy voice running down my spine like sweet summer rain. Our eyes met, and like a lit match, they sparked the entire lobby on fire. “And she’d better make the right choice for a change.”

RHYLAND

“Fuck that,” Dylan mouthed noiselessly over Gravity’s head, enunciating each vowel between those luscious lips of hers.

“There’s my delicate flower.” I smirked mockingly, trying to swallow down the cue ball of hysteria wedged in my throat.

Bruce Marshall thought my best friend’s baby sister and I were together. It didn’t take a genius to see he’d gotten a hard-on at the idea. Me. A family man. Accounted for. The first sign of interest from him so far. Which meant the charade must continue. I couldn’t blow this chance.

“I’m not pretending to be your fiancée, Rhyland,” Dylan clarified.

“Just…” I massaged my temples. “Listen before you slam the idea, okay?”

She already has a good-for-nothing ex. There is nothing you can offer her in exchange for this favor.

The elevator arrived, and I pushed open the rusty gates, hurling the suitcases and duffel bags inside before holding the door open for Dylan and her daughter. Dylan stepped inside, still staring at me like I was crazy. In her defense, I had just propositioned her with something that only made sense in low-budget rom-coms.

I’d spent my entire adolescence actively avoiding this girl, only to get a phone call yesterday from Row that his baby sister was moving into the building. He asked me to watch over her, probably because he wasn’t aware of how closely I’d watched her while growing up.

Oh, watching Dylan wasn’t a punishment by any stretch of the imagination. It was listening to her that made me want to hurl myself directly onto the tracks of a moving freight train.

And now I wanted her to pretend to not only like me but actually convince people she’d willingly tie her future to mine.

The elevator doors slid shut. I pushed my hair out of my face.

“Look, I’m sure you have a lot of questions.”

“Nope.” Dylan popped open her purse, took out a piece of gum, and threw it into her mouth without offering me any. The scent of lime and cherry filled the small space. “None at all. Because I’m not going along with this nonsense.”

“But—”

“This is not a Hallmark movie, and you are not Nicholas Galitzine.”

“Slow your roll here.” I raised my palms in surrender. “I think we can agree both me and Nicholas Galitzine are far too good for straight-to-cable mov—”

“The answer is no.”

Okay. Tough crowd. I had done something to cause her to hate me, but that was fucking eons ago. What was with the elephant memory? I couldn’t remember what I’d had for breakfast this morning.

Oh, wait. Yes, I do. The blond from my hot yoga class.

“Here’s the thing.” I licked my lips. “Bruce is a potential investor for my start-up app, App-date. If I secure his investment, it’ll allow me a monstrous budget, a mouthwatering one-off paycheck, not to mention connections. Marshall is a very powerful guy. You might know him from Shark Tank? The last season?” I glanced at her hopefully.

She pretended to look over her shoulder. “Oh, you’re talking to me? I thought you were talking to a boomer who actually does watch broadcast stations.”

I inwardly groaned. Dylan was trouble in every way imaginable. A lethal combination of heart-achingly gorgeous—the kind of beautiful that seeps into your system like fine whiskey, making your bones liquid and your common sense sparse—whip-smart, sarcastic, stubborn, and emotional to a fault. She had no filters, no inhibitions, and no fucks to give when it came to what people thought about her.

Even as a kid, everything made her cry. Injured animals. People who took lunch alone in the cafeteria. Super Bowl ads. She felt everything, all at once, in vivid color. I, by contrast, felt nothing at all. Ever. By choice. We were like oil and water. Black and white. Hot dogs and real meat. You get the drill.

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