Page 8 of Art of Love

The crowed groaned but then turned back to chatting and dancing as someone else started playing the guitar.

Abe turned back towards her, eyes searching hers, like he was waiting for a reaction.

She refused to give him one.

“Not bad,” she said, keeping her tone flat.

His lips twitched. “Not bad?”

She shrugged. “You’ve got a decent voice. A little rough around the edges.”

That made him laugh. A real, genuine laugh that sent another ripple of awareness through her.

“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, still grinning.

She didn’t respond, just took a slow sip from her drink, pretending like his presence wasn’t unraveling her carefully constructed indifference.

Then, just as she was about to push off the log and make her escape, someone in the crowd shouted, “Dylan! That is you. Are you back in town for good?”

A dozen heads turned towards her.

Damn.

She’d managed to avoid that question all night, and now, thanks to Abe freaking Collins sitting beside her, she had an audience.

Dylan forced a smile, keeping her voice light. “Just visiting.”

The person, some guy she vaguely remembered from high school, nodded, but the way he was looking at her, and the way a few others whispered, told her the rumors would be swirling by morning.

She felt Abe watching her.

“So, you are not actually living here?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“Didn’t say that,” she replied, standing and dusting the sand off her jeans.

He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

“Well,” she said, nodding towards the bonfire, “enjoy the rest of the party, superstar.”

Then she turned and walked away, refusing to look back.

Because if she did, she might just let him see the one thing she swore no one ever would. That he’d just shaken something loose inside her. And she had no idea how to put it back.

“That’s it?” Abe fell in step with her.

She stopped and turned back towards him, her eyebrows arched. “What were you expecting? A standing ovation?”

He chuckled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Nah, just figured you’d at least pretend to be impressed.”

“I don’t pretend.” She tilted her head, studying him. “So what’s the deal? Do you always sing for free for your friends?”

He smirked. “Only when the mood strikes and he’s letting me stay at his place.”

She made a noncommittal sound and kept walking, the cool sand shifting beneath her bare feet. The party noise faded behind them as they moved closer to the water’s edge, the waves rolling in with a steady rhythm.

“So, what’s the deal with you?” he countered. “Do you always pretend not to care when a famous singer sits next to you?”

She didn’t miss a step. Thankfully. “Depends on the singer.”