Wilde About Dylon: The Brothers Wilde Series — Book Four

by Faircloth, Cate

  I thought I could come here and maybe not run into him at all, but when Carson and Emily got me into the third-wheel category, I ventured out on my own. Now I’ve been cornered, proving that Dylan is as regular a man as everyone else wanting what obviously doesn’t want him.

  “Why?” He leans in closer. I inhale on instinct, and his sharp scent billows through me. I want to lean closer in response as much as I want to lean away.

  “Because,” I huff like an impatient teacher annoyed by pestering students.

  Dylan doesn’t budge. He chuckles under his breath and shifts on his feet.

  I grow bored of holding my tongue and walk away instead of exploding on him. That wouldn’t be tasteful for a party like this. Charity functions are my least favorite—the suits, all the fanciness. The only reason I agreed to come was I needed a place to wear this dress. And Emily would never let me hear the end of it if I didn’t.

  We spend more time together because we work together, but also since she got together with Carson and can’t exactly gush relationship drama to the guy she is in a relationship with. But they don’t even have real drama. They might be the only perfect couple there is, and it’s probably because they’re best friends first. I suppose that’s why Emily won’t leave this whole thing alone. She wants to be my friend, and it makes it hard to do that when I won’t go anywhere that involves Carson’s brothers who are also her family.

  This charity event is one of many I’ve endured dodging Dylan and succeeding until tonight.

  He follows me to the table with a Disney Resort four-day trip. I should go on vacation, then maybe I won’t be so uptight.

  “Are you playing hard to get? I haven’t even asked you out yet.”

  I pause mid-breath staring up at him with my brows raised in shock and mouth in a tight scowl. He stares right back down to me, the curve of his lips peeking out from his beard. It’s perfectly trimmed and not overly full but enough to frame his jaw from his chin and over his upper lip. It matches his dark brown hair pushed back on his head, full like a pillowtop. The deep ridge of his brows juts out, framing his eyes—dark pools of a cagey gray that darken the longer I look at them.

  “What?” he pries, when I’m silent for a while.

  Mostly shocked by his forwardness and irritated by his arrogance, the Wilde brothers all exude the same energy, but Dylan is the only one who screams hard arrogance and soft egotism with a little bit of self-absorption.

  “You’re so out of line,” I scoff. My head shakes with disgust, my gut cracks with it.

  “I mean, I could ask you out. I’m not opposed to it.” His tongue darts over his lips, and my eyes train there before I find his eyes which aren’t any better as they start to glint.

  “You’re an asshole.” I walk away from him faking a smile at the people around us so it isn’t obvious we’re acting like clueless adults. I’m being as aware as I possibly can.

  I always have been since I graduated college, and my entire life changed. And then last year when I discovered the root of that problem was Dylan himself. He’s too young to be causing this kind of pain in other people, and I’m too young to feel it.

  I have been as big a person as I can doing everything but stating outright that he ruined my life and to leave me alone. Emily is the only friend I have. I’m annoying enough with my natural not-a-people-person attitude. It’s worse with their family, but I like doing things with Emily, so I suck it up for the off-chance Dylan will notice me. He usually doesn’t, and if he does, it’s no more than staring.

  This is the first time in all the years of staring that he has tried to talk to me. A flutter in my gut tells me I probably wished he would say something because under all the anger and blame I feel for him, I am still a woman, and he still rings all the bells.

  “Why, because I won’t ask you out?” He meets me again at the next section where I thought I could get away from him at the spa day table.

  I write in a higher bid than the last one written on the sheet and then drop it in the black box.

  “No, Dylan. Why don’t you go bother some other woman?” I turn to him, my toes pinching in my heels. I tighten my jaw at him, my lips pursing. I think they’re always pursed, and I don’t do it on purpose. But he makes my entire face grimace because looking at him makes my blood boil, and I don’t want to look away because he is so strikingly handsome I can’t take it.

  “Because I’m not interested in them. I’m interested in you.”

  “Why? Because I won’t give you the time of day?”

  He steps closer barely towering over me, but tall enough my eyelids flutter as I stare at him.

  “No, because you’re the most beautiful woman in this room. Your attitude needs work, though.” He smirks, and I fight the urge to pull it from his face.

  “My attitude?” I gape, looking around to make sure no one is drawn to our heated conversation. I stand down and lower my voice, so it doesn’t seem like it. People watch those four like hawks especially at events like this. So, standing next to him makes me feel like all eyes are on me.

  “Yeah, your attitude. You’ve been shooting me daggers with your pretty little eyes all night like I did something to you.”

  “Like you… you know what, I’m not doing this.” I hiss and brush past him, my shoulder hits his arm and almost makes me stumble on my heels.

  I weave through the huge crowd to try to escape him. It doesn’t do much for me since I feel him tight on my heels.

  The nerve of him.

  I should know by now that his moral compass is way off after what he did. Perhaps I hoped for the best. My heels clank the marble dance floor as I walk past it, and I cross by Emily at the bar. I stop, glancing over my shoulder and exhaling with relief when I don’t see Dylan behind me.

  “Hey, where did you go?” Emily smiles. She’s all chipper looking like an actual faerie in her cloudy blue evening gown, strapless and form-fitting.

  “Um… looking for the bathroom.” I swallow as my chest pounds with my erratic heart. I hadn’t realized the whole time I was talking to Dylan that I was throwing skipped heartbeats and getting lightheaded.

  “Oh, it’s… you okay?” Emily touches my elbow as I feel my face go pale. She probably sees it too, and that’s why she gets concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I lie. I need to sit down. The pace of my heartbeat only slows down a little, but I feel like my knees are locked.

  “Okay, well, let’s go to the bathroom.” She talks over her shoulder to Carson whom I hadn’t noticed before and then ushers us to the bathroom down a hall.

  The women’s bathroom is more of a luxury hotel—couches, marble countertops, gold fixtures. I don’t even want to pee in here and ruin it or something. But I need to check my makeup and rest for a second. Emily finishes using the bathroom and comes out.

  “This dress is impossible,” she says to me, looking in the mirror at me sitting on the gold button couch in front of the sinks.

  “It looks like it.” I sigh. I absently pick at my nails painted to match my dress.

  Emily dries her hands and sits next to me.

  “What’s up? The chicken hit you wrong?”

  I giggle. “No. I’m just tired.”

  We lean on each other since there is no back to the chair.

  “Yeah, that meeting this morning was so early and went on forever,” she scoffs, referring to the divisional meeting at seven this morning. Even on a Friday, Mr. Arnold is out to get us. He vaguely mentioned an allocation of funds, but that has nothing to do with Emily or me and the work we do, so we played cup pong on our phones.

  “They always do. So how much longer do we have to stay?” I yawn, not able to hold it back. Emily laughs at me and leans around the front to look at me.

  “I don’t know, Carson has to make appearances. And we shared a car.”

  I roll my eyes. I almost forgot about that. I’m going to start driving to these things when I know Dylan will be there. I didn’t expect him to talk to me a
t all, but he did. And now I can’t stop thinking about his voice, his scent, his irrefutable gray eyes boring into mine. Gray and green make a good mix, but mine are dull and sad. His are pointed and ardent.

  “Did you take your medicine? Is that why you aren’t feeling well?” Emily asks.

  “I’m fine, and I did take it. I just… ran into Dylan.”

  “Oh.” She makes a dramatic noise. “How did that go?”

  “Splendid. I’ll sit at the bar until you’re ready.” I stand and shift my dress.

  She does the same. “Actually, I’ll ask Carson if we can go. I’ll promise him good sex, and he’ll do anything I want. Let’s go.”

  I half smile. I’m glad she can be so convincing.

  “No, we don’t have to make him leave. It’s fine. I still want to see my bid on the spa day.”

  “Okay.” She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

  We link arms and venture back to the party. The music is a little more upbeat, but I assume it will die down.

  After the silent auction, it does, and I didn’t get the spa day. Which is fine, I have a spa membership I can use anyway. I think I only wrote something down to have something to do with my hands other than punch Dylan with them. I don’t see him around for the remainder of the night.

  Finally, Emily tells me we can go, and I’m about to escape the wonderfully upsetting night until I realize I left my purse at our table.

  I circle back as they wait for me spotting my bright red clutch on my seat and sighing with relief before I identify the body standing behind the chair—Dylan.

  How much do I want my purse?

  3

  Dylan

  I have half a mind to go after her, but the better part of me knows not to make a scene. People talk. Society groups and all, people at the office—there are a lot of people who want excuses not to like us. The workplace is a little different since our employees have no reason to hate us. We don’t partake in wrongful termination or walk around like we own the place even though we do. We never get bad complaints either. But the rest of the world, especially this city and this small, one percent of people in this room, are perfectly content secretly hating us, maybe wishing they were us too.

  Dad built a massive institution that the four of us who work for him have to carry on. Evan, Holden, Carson, and me, we did the same thing as all our brothers. When we were fifteen, we started sitting in on board meetings, and at eighteen, we gained an actual voting seat on the Board of Directors. But only the four of us took jobs at the company and not because Dad passed. Holden maybe, since he was always his right hand, the only one who wanted to take on that kind of high blood pressure. Other people don’t see that, and they don’t see how hard we work. They see legacy children who are spoiled, and yes, we grew up very rich and capable, but we were raised, we weren’t left behind with nannies and checking accounts. They don’t know that, and they don’t care to see that—they being everyone else who cares to bat an eye at us.

  So yes, any sudden movements, anything worthy of a bad assumption is always there. Public events are as helpful as they are dangerous. It’s the only reason Brant has to stay so secluded and who would probably be even more successful if he didn’t have to be. And Fletcher, who doesn’t live the full football player life for any bad stunts that might happen.

  I’m already getting the stares. I brush them off and smile when I need to. And as much as I wanted to follow Forbes to wherever she was running to, I got stopped by at least a dozen people wanting to catch up or converse about things I don’t care about but pretend to, so I can get money for our charities—so we can get it. Dad made things very clear, and we have no problem keeping it going. But because of the way things were left after he died, sometimes it hurts more than it helps. Dad should still be here. I wish he were. Getting off on the wrong foot doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  So, when I see Carson and Emily leaving with Forbes next to them, it comes flooding back seemingly at once because I tried so hard to forget. Carson reminded me of her last year. Her dad used to work for us. I can’t remember his name since I’ve got thousands of employees to look after.

  But I remember him—it’s got to be why she doesn’t like me, why she hates me, it seems. I don’t know her or the specifics, but I hope that isn’t it because if it is, she’s sorely mistaken.

  “Mr. Wilde, I was hoping to catch you before you left.”

  I hear the name and keep walking, the nasal voice too.

  “Mr. Wilde.” A tap on my shoulder comes.

  Dammit.

  “Hi, sorry. Thought you were trying to get one of my brothers.” I fake a smile, a helpless chuckle too. I’ve gotten good at it—might be one of the first things my dad taught me once I started to work for him.

  “No, no. It’s you I want.” The man is Daniel Nelson, a longtime colleague who I never really liked. I’m not sure why, but it could be his nasal voice or his dishonest business practices too. Men like him—half in the stock market and half in the corporate financial world—they’re never honest.

  “Oh yeah? What can I do for you?” I look around, over his head as I stuff my hands in my pockets and crack my knuckles. It’s easy to look over his head because he’s shorter than me, old, and half bald. His suit screams money, so does his smug grin, like he already has this conversation in the bag.

  “I have been trying to get in contact with you about a possible merger.”

  “With who?” He pokes my attention with that, so I look at him for the first time. He chortles in response.

  “Me. My company. I’m a financial stronghold, so I thought it would be—”

  “You thought? I’m sorry, aren’t you an investment company?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “We don’t acquire companies with personal assets, and if I remember correctly, most of your revenue is from personal stocks.”

  “Yes, but—”

  I huff, impatient again. I have a short attention span for a twenty-eight-year-old.

  “I’m sorry, it wouldn’t be lucrative.” I move to walk away, probably to the bar. But he is persistent, hence why I always try to avoid him and dodge the calls that come in from him or his company.

  “Mr. Wilde, I was hoping to discuss this further…”

  “Sure…” I force a smile, “… give us a call. Excuse me.” I’m walking away before I barely hear his protest.

  It was wishful thinking assuming I could get through the night without a business proposal thrown my way.

  This night is for charity, particularly for the undereducated, underfunded youth in the city and not for business proposals, inappropriate ones at that. We don’t deal with personal assets for a reason—when they lose money, we do.

  Except we don’t because we’re a holding company. When the financial status of the company in Taiwan went bankrupt, we stripped for assets and pretended it never happened. When things go south, we liquidate and run on to the next one. Dad taught us that. We keep it going.

  I stop for a much-needed drink at the bar and head back to the table. If Carson is leaving, that leaves the three of us, and technically two because Evan doesn’t do anything, and he might have already left. I’m usually the last to leave these things since it’s the least I can do because I always leave early at work.

  Taking my drink and avoiding any more unnecessary conversations, I head back to our table. Sooner or later the event coordinator will drop off the final check for the money raised. It turns out to be sooner when Heather Scott makes her way to me—the owner of the charity and non-profit event planning company we’ve used for years since before Dad died.

  “Are you the right brother to give this to?” She hands me an envelope, smiling. Heather reminds me of Mom sometimes, probably the identical dark blonde hair and blue eyes or sweet personality.

  “Yes, I am. For once,” I joke. It’s unlike me to joke which is why I say that about Heather. With as many events as we plan, and me being responsible for finances, I see he
r at least once a week.

  “Oh, good. It went well tonight.” She hands me the envelope and adjusts her gold shawl over her matching dress.

  “Really? That’s good.” I turn the envelope over in my hands, not opening it yet. I might wait until I get home or until Monday in the office when we are all together.

  “It is, and it’s also important work. Your dad would be… very proud.” She smiles, and I look at her for the first time during the entire conversation. I smile back, but not much, under my beard it might be undetectable.

  “Thank you.”

  “Sure. And I’ll be talking with you soon anyway, for the next one.” She laughs a bit and then steps around me touching my arm softly before she leaves.

  I fan the unmarked envelope over my hand, staring down at it. It’s the dozenth or so since—without Dad.

  I’m thinking none of us were ready for this to happen.

  We took our time off, some went to family therapy, and me, I did nothing but stew and avoid work until I couldn’t anymore. The envelope filled with more good that stems from Dad reminds me how mistaken I am. About everything. I need to find my way back. I want to. I don’t know how.

  As I stare down behind the chair, I come across a bright red purse that reminds of the woman wearing the dress that matches. To top it off, she comes walking up.

  Forbes.

  I can see her eyes from these many feet away staring me down. I stare back, or more like I get stuck in the vortex she sucks me into with her notable golden hair—it isn’t light brown or even blonde, it’s just golden—and her eyes more than an emerald green, her lips full and pursed to their limit. The look she is giving me confirms this is her purse I’m standing in front of.

  My brow raises, she goes from walking as slow as possible to rushing my way with her hips swaying, the swells of her breasts lightly bouncing with each drop of her heels. As she comes up to the table, I pick up her purse and stuff the envelope in the breast pocket of my jacket.

  “Can you give me my purse, please?” She holds her hands out, frowning as she looks past me on purpose.