Page 17 of Rockstar Rescue
"My dad was a slip and fall attorney," he explains, cutting into his steak with precision. "Represented an upscale restaurant chain.”
"Rich city boy, huh. Lucky your dad could pull the right strings.”
“My old man didn’t do a thing. I made it a point to meet the chefs. Weaseled my way into a part time job as soon as I was old enough to work. I worked hard. Proved myself. Chefs liked me, most gave me flexible hours for auditions."
As I think about my own dad, how different Dylan’s life was from my own.
I look out the window. The wall of white snow whizzes outside the glass. From the sound of the howling wind, the storm’s intensifying.
Turning back to Dylan, I smile. “I never learned to cook properly. Just opened cans for dinner most nights."
Dylan makes a face.
“Don’t judge! You're a rock star with pocket spices. I’m just a simple Whitefish girl grateful when spiced pumpkin latte comes to our local Starbucks.”
Charlie Boy whines at our feet, his eyes fixed on Dylan's plate.
"Looks like someone wants a second portion. It’ll be right up, Charlie Boy,” Dylan says, rising, before turning to me. “That mongrel saved my life tonight."
"Don't call my professionally trained, Belgium Shepherd a mongrel!" I protest, covering Charlie Boy's tall ears. "He understands English."
Charlie Boy barks, making us both laugh.
"I'll fetch his meal,” Dylan says, his hand briefly touching my shoulder as he passes. The contact sends warmth spreading through me.
I watch, half-smiling, as Dylan plates another ribeye for Charlie Boy.
My dog doesn't wait for permission. He just dives in with complete abandon, chomping loudly while grease forms a shiny film across his muzzle.
"Charlie Boy," I scold, "you look like a mess. Have some manners."
"You're a strict mistress, you know that?" Dylan says.
Though Dylan’s voice is warm with amusement, I feel a jolt of deja vu. Big Bruce had said something similar to me just a few hours ago.
"I have to be," I reply, more firmly than I meant. "Charlie Boy is more than just my dog. He's my responsibility. The department gave him to me as a pup, and I was tasked with training him."
I run my fingers along the edge of my plate. "As incredible as it sounds, the department has every right to take him away if they see fit."
"What?" Dylan looks genuinely shocked, his fork pausing midway to his mouth. "But he's your dog."
"Yes, he's my dog," I say, watching Charlie Boy lick his chops, "but legally, he belongs to the Department."
Dylan nods and takes a thoughtful bite of his meat, chewing slowly.
The candlelight catches in his eyes as he swallows. "Interesting twist of fate," he says finally. “If I didn’t decide to swing through Whitefish, I would not have crashed. And met you.”
He meets my eyes. Our gaze is almost too intense, so I look away.
“Right. But then if you stayed with your band, you would have partied with your band. Groupies, all that. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”
“Maybe. It was fun back in the day. When my bandmates were all with me.”
"Why did they leave?”
"Some have passed on. Others moved on. Forty is a hard time in a man's life."
I'm quiet for a minute, watching him. The cabin feels smaller suddenly, more intimate. I know it would be rude to ask for details, but something in his vulnerability makes me want to know more.
