Page 139 of Revolve
The bathroom door opens, and Kian lets out an audible sigh. Dylan’s already dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and sweats, socks and all. It’s the first time I’ve seen him fully dressed before leaving the bathroom; he usually rummages through his closet in a towel or stark naked.
“Hi, baby.” Dylan walks over, and presses kisses to my forehead.
“You didn’t tell me Kian got injured last night,” I say.
Dylan cuts a serious look to his best friend. “Yeah, sorry, it was late when we got back from the ER. Didn’t want to worry you.”
I look back at Kian. “You think you’ll still be able to come to our performance tonight?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” He smiles. “Even if it kills me, apparently.” He aims a glare at Dylan. The two of them seem to communicate something, but I don’t try to decipher it. Sometimes, it is just better to smile and nod when they’re together.
Then, as Whiskers tries to escape from Kian’s hold to go to Dylan, I remember the tiny bag I stuffed into my purse. I pull it out and give it to Kian. “I made you and Whiskers matching hats. Thought you might like them.”
Kian blinks and pulls out the tiny green one first. “You made us Shrek ears?” There’s a quiver in his voice. He glances at Dylan like he’s pleading, but Dylan stares blankly. Kian swallows. “Thank you, Sierra. I’m sorry.”
I furrow my brow. “Sorry for what?”
“We should probably eat,” Dylan interjects. “Lidia texted to meet early.”
I stare at them a second longer but step away to grab our food. “I bought extra. I’ll get us some plates.”
And as I’m heading out the door, I hear a smack, and Kian grumbles.
WE DROVE TWOhours to the venue. My parents were already in the audience, and Dylan’s sister and mom came too, because I invitedthem. I couldn’t help but notice how Dylan wasn’t acting like his usual self. He looked distracted.
“No matter what happens out there, I know that this is where I’m supposed to be, and who I’m supposed to be with,” I say, more as a reminder. I’m not sure what’s bothering him, but I want him to know where I stand.
Dylan raises his brows. “That’s a big deal coming from you.”
“Because I mean it. No matter what.”
“Win or lose, Romanova, you still got me.”
We’re watching the skaters finish their routine to a Coldplay song when I notice a man talking in front of the light of a camera. “Dylan,” I say. “Tell me that’s not who I think it is.”
He follows my line of sight, as I gawk at the man in a full suit and microphone. The one I’ve been watching on TV for months.
Dylan chuckles, sounding a bit hoarse. “Oh yeah. Surprise.”
“Surprise?” I smack his arm. “You got the weatherman to host the competition?”
Dale Thunderman is talking into his mic with a camera crew in front of him. He gestures back to a group of fans, then pulls a kid to interview from the crowd. There’re women in the corner fanning themselves as if we aren’t near a huge slab of ice. But I get it, because I might fangirl too.
“Honestly, it didn’t take much persuasion,” Dylan says. “Weathermen aren’t really a hot commodity, babe.”
“Pfft. I bet he could pull more girls than you,” I say.
One corner of Dylan’s lip quirks. “Yeah? Does that list of girls include you?”
I roll one shoulder. “Depends.”
He narrows his eyes. “On?”
“Whether this girl is taken.”
Now he’s full-on smiling, and I relax seeing him back to how he should be. “Baby, there’s only one girl I want to pull, and after shespends the next four minutes in every angle imaginable, we’re going to do it all over again in my room.”
The mouth on this man. “Naked?”
