I smile at the adorable pictures Rosita texted of Bessie on top of my fridge and Balaster crouching underneath my bed and type her back a thank you. Then I take a quick shower and blow-dry my hair before throwing on my most comfortable pair of jeans and a turquoise sweater.
I’m scrolling through my phone as I walk through the lobby when—
“Oompf.” My head hits a wall.
Of muscled chest.
Dazed, I look up.
My hand is pressed against Dylan Wild’s chest. He steadies me by putting his hand on my arm, and his eyes twinkle in amusement. “I tried to step around you, but you actually shifted at the same time, and we collided. Are you okay?”
I laugh. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just walking without watching where I’m going.”
He’s carrying a workout bag, and his hair’s damp like he just showered. His jeans and Cougars sweatshirt complete his casual look, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning out loud.
Because Dylan Wild is even hotter when he isn’t dressed up.Shit. I want to climb him all of a sudden—just wrap my legs around his waist and ride him into oblivion.
His face breaks into a smile. “Did you try to call me?”
“Yes. I wanted to thank you for wiring the money over. It got there safely.”
I step back, trying to appear casual. I’m finding it’s much harder to stay cool when you start to care about the guy. It’s also harder to focus. I’m so busy staring at Dylan and lusting over him that I can hardly carry on a logical conversation.
“I’m glad. I was working out,” he says. “I hoped you might call, not to thank me but to say hi.” His mouth turns up on one side.
I swallow. “You hoped right.”
“Sorry I missed you. What are you up to?”
“Just getting a bagel or something for breakfast.” I glance at my watch. “Okay, a late breakfast.”
“Let’s go.” He takes my arm and leads me out of the hotel.
* * *
Dylan blocks my face from the camera greeting us when we step outside, but in this case, I know he’s just trying to protect me rather than help himself. This cameraman is with a reputable magazine; Dylan told me about him last night. So I duck underneath his arm and let the paparazzo take his shots. I don’t speak or answer any of his inane questions like, “Do you have a black belt in the martial arts?”
Dylan hustles me away, and he insists on driving this time, so I have no idea where he’s taking me. We end up getting caught in traffic downtown.
“Lot of people out today,” Dylan says.
“There are people everywhere,” I say wearily. “You can’t escape them.”
“Sounds like you want to.”
“Who wouldn’t want to when you live in Los Angeles?” I say.
As we pull up in front of an art museum, I look over at him. “What’s this?”
“You like art, and I usually don’t have time or friends to do this sort of thing with. I love art museums. And they have a cafeteria here. Is this not okay?”
“It’s…perfect, actually.” That’s the problem. Dylan never fails to surprise me, only in good ways. I could fall for him by the end of the hour if I let myself.
He takes my hand as we leave the car and walk through the parking lot. Mine starts to sweat almost immediately, and I pull it away.
He grabs it back. “You turn me on, too,” he says, winking at me.
I sigh and march onward.
