Page 25 of Dirty Dylan: Dirty Dusters

Perfectly lonely too.

Another pause.

We both realize Pandora’s box has been well and truly opened during this lockdown. Truths have come out that we won’t be able to simply hide away again, at least not from each other.

I shrug as I glance at him. “I just thought it sounded fitting.”

He grins back. “You do know many would argue that Heathcliff and Cathy’s relationship was toxic and incestuous, and that there was nothing romantic about it.”

“I wasn’t trying to be romantic.” My response is immediate to the point of sounding clipped.

Was I sub-consciously trying to be romantic?

His smile disappears as his eyes search my face. I bite my bottom lip, feeling guilty at how dismissive my reply came across.

He turns his attention back to the data.

“I didn’t think you were, Jessie,” he answers eventually, his tone quiet, the atmosphere now noticeably cooler. Have I hurt his feelings?

I quickly discount that thought. How could I have? He’s in love with his cliché blonde. Why would he have romantic feelings for me?

If we do hook up, at best all I’ll ever be is next in a long line of O’Connell fuck buddies.

CHAPTERTHIRTEEN

DYLAN

Jessie’s Apartment, Hudson Yards, New York

“Pulp Fictionis on Netflix.”

We’ve been working together for weeks now. The data manipulation is all but concluded. Jessie’s just finalizing and consolidating the last remaining items. I’m sitting in her screen room, scanning her set-up for any signs of external interference.

There is none.

Or at least none that can crack her coding. Her software is impenetrable, like mine. She’s a techie perfectionist like me.

I don’t need to check her systems as often as I do. I don’t have to sit here day after day either, but it’s become a habit. She’s become a habit.

It’s gone full circle. I’m aware of that. I now look forward to spending my time with her.

She’s like a breath of fresh air. She’s also certifiably insane most of the time. When the opportunity arises not to take life too seriously, Jessie O’Brien seizes it with both hands.

With every day that passes, I’m becoming more and more addicted to her.

I’m doomed.

“Is it?” I’m not sure what else there is to say.

Was it a question or just a general observation? We don’t spend our evenings together, only our working hours. And in the unlikely event it’s been offered as an invitation, there can’t be any romantic innuendo attached. Jessie shot any chance of a relationship of that nature down in flames a few days ago during the Emily Bronte conversation.

My cheeks burn at the thought. How could I have been stupid enough to think that someone like Jessie O’Brien would ever be interested in someone like me?

Eejit.

She has her back to me. She’s scrolling through her screens and adjusting things here and there. I could watch her doing this all day, every day. Then again, I could just stare at her doing nothing twenty-four seven. My gaze drops to her arse. It’s perfection, wrapped today in a pair of ridiculously short pale blue jean shorts, her long, tanned legs on very welcome display.

“Since we’re almost done, and we’re stuck here, just the two of us, I thought we could watch it together. You know, maybe recreate that famous dancing scene. I could be the Uma Thurman to your John Travolta. Uma is my ultimate heroine, just so you know.”

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