Page 38 of Haunted Hearts
When the guy looks up from the candles and zeroes in on our table, I stand up from my folding chair, moving nonchalantly to stand by Lydia as Nancy chats with another passerby. From the corner of my eye, I can see him making his way toward our booth, but I busy myself with one of the book parcels, studying the card on the front:Romance. Regency. Downton Abbey, but make it spicy.
I have no fucking clue.
“Hey, Lyds.”
I can tell by the way Lydia bristles next to me that she hadn’t seen the guy approaching. But she keeps her cool, always poised and collected, greeting him in an even voice that betrays nothing. “Dylan. How’s it going?”
The guy dips his hands in his jeans pockets. “Oh, not bad at all. Beautiful day.”
“Mmhm.”
Dylan rifles through the books, and I honestly wonder if this guy’s ever read an entire book before. It’s pretty clear from the way he’s flipping through them he’s not even reading the cards on the front.
“So…” the douche drawls. “You got plans tonight? My entire weekend’s clear, and I thought we could… pick up where we left off.”
Seriously? Nancy’s still chatting with a visitor, but I’m standing right here—flipping through a brochure about therenovation, yet clearly listening. But Dylan’s looking up at Lydia with a gross, sultry sort of half smile on his face, and I’m pretty sure my presence hasn’t even registered.
Lydia barely even reacts, just straightens the packages that Dylan’s been digging through. She plucks the one he’s holding right out of his hands and places it on the top of the pile.
“Nah. No thanks,” she says.
“Aw, really?” Dylan’s tone is whining. “I’ve got that pizza oven, we could?—”
I cut him off. “She said no.”
Next to me, I feel Lydia stiffen. For a split second, her eyes flit to mine, and then they’re back on the books she’s straightening that are already sufficiently straight.
Dylan shoots a grin at me, which is more like a flash of bared teeth. “Hey, uh. Hi. Do we know each other? Or…?”
“We haven’t met, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. I give him a curt nod. “Will Holloway.”
Dylan runs his tongue along his top teeth, studying me. His eyes flick to the brochures fanned out on the table, and he nods, realization dawning. “Holloway, huh? You’re the architect.”
“That’s me.”
I cross my arms over my chest, watch Dylan set his jaw as he sizes me up. Although there’s no doubt this guy is fit—probably shoots hoops on the weekends or something—my arms are easily twice the size of his. Like, come on, bro. Do you evenlift?
Lydia, who’s clearly picked up on this silent standoff, sighs. “Are you buying a book, Dylan? It’s for the fundraiser. Blind date with a book.”
“Interesting,” Dylan says, his attention back on Lydia. He studies the books in front of him.“How’s it work? Someone buys a book—and they get to go on a blind date with you?”
He laughs, and I can tell he actually thinks his joke is funny.
“Not exactly,” Lydia says.
She gives him a pitying kind of smile, but doesn’t take the bait, just explains the concept to him the same way she’s explained it to every other visitor.
“Well, you got any recommendations?” Dylan asks, now fingering the books in a way that makes me want to puke.
Lydia shrugs. “Depends what you’re in the mood for.”
Dylan looks straight at her, ignoring me. “What about something naughty?”
My blood goes cold. Is he for fucking real? Lydia’s blushing, clearing her throat, stammering something about how that’s not really appropriate, how maybe she ought to pass him off to Nancy. He says he’s kidding, that it was just a joke.
But when he reaches out and starts stroking her arm, I see fucking red.
Now I’m pissed.
