They moved over my face, down to my wrist tucked against my stomach, then back to my eyes.
Everything in him went still.
That was the scariest version of Dylan.
Not angry.
Not loud.
Still.
He walked toward us.
The crowd shifted without knowing why. People made room. Conversations dipped. Some tourist with a margarita stepped backward so fast he bumped into a planter.
Dylan stopped in front of me.
Close enough that I could smell leather, ocean air, and him.
“Beautiful,” he said.
One word.
A year disappeared.
My throat closed.
Behind him, Nate sighed. “Well, this just got emotionally complicated.”
Dylan didn’t look at him.
He looked at my wrist again. “Did he touch you?”
I should have lied.
I wanted to lie.
I was not some girl who needed rescuing on a sidewalk in Santa Monica.
But the spot still burned.
“Yes,” Lily said for me. “The one dressed like a country club apology grabbed her and left marks.”
Dylan’s eyes moved to Brett.
Brett took one step back.
Smartest thing he had done all night.
Dylan smiled.
It was not a nice smile.
“Brett Harrison,” he said.
Brett’s face changed. “How do you know my name?”
Nate stepped up beside Dylan, cheerful as poison. “Oh, buddy. We know lots of names. Yours was filed under rich boy with poor impulse control.”
