My suit is almost like a second skin when I try to strip it off.
And my lips, still pulsing from that kiss with Forbes, sear the memory back in my mind. I wouldn’t be able to ignore it anyway, not if I tried. An infallible connection with her runs through my veins crippling me in a way that makes me unable to be still, to accept it without doing anything about it.
Instead of going to sleep, I plug my phone in to charge and scroll through old emails, finding the last one that Horris sent to me. Two files are attached, basic information on Forbes, and then what I need on the connection between her father and me.
Whether she tells me or not, I have to find out. But she is right, the satisfaction of her telling me and giving me the opportunity to make things right is far greater than sneaking my way into it and invading the privacy she has made clear she needs.
It seems like I might be doing whatever it takes to rationalize kissing her again too, having her… I’ve never met a woman so strong, so sure of herself, so beautiful. Of course, it’s my luck that she wants nothing to do with me. Or is convinced she doesn’t.
I take my pent-up energy and dress for the gym instead of trying to sleep and end up lying awake for hours. I drive there knowing it’s close enough to walk but entertaining thoughts in the back of my mind that may or may not come to fruition.
My hooded sweatshirt keeps me in my own head, going through the motions, half in and half out.
Forbes has become a figment of my subconscious. I feel like she is right here watching me in the dirty mirror beside the boxing ring, on the bench by the free weights… it could be because her scent is still on my skin, her lips ghosting on mine, the scent of her gloss in my beard, the feeling of her nails digging in still pulsing on my skin. Every inch of her is growing on me, and it makes me more than crazy that I don’t know what to do about it.
Pursuing a woman is something I haven’t ever really done. I didn’t notice girls as something I wanted until high school maybe, and even then, it came easy because no one wanted anything that was too hard, same thing in college. I’ve always been a reserved person, and relationships got in the way of that. Everything that happened with Dad didn’t make it any easier, landing me where I am now. I barely know how to have a human conversation, and when I do, it’s with a woman who makes me fight for every end of the conversation.
Nearly dropping a forty-pound dumbbell on my foot signals I’m done with this for the night. I refill my water bottle wiping sweat as I do, and then chug it back down again.
Still panting, I get in my car, start the engine, and realize I haven’t figured out if I’m going home or—
Shit.
I’m racing down the street before I think of it. It’s shy of ten when I pull up outside her building once again.
Forbes might throw a knife at me, but I don’t care. With my hood still on, I jog up the steps and get a questionable look from an elderly woman on the second floor. I guess I look a little suspicious—bearded, hooded, and wearing black sweats.
I take my hood off before I knock on Forbes’ door. She might not even be awake.
Still, I knock pretty hard until I hear the patter of her feet. I stop and hear a little huff of her breath when she probably checks the peephole and sees that it’s me.
But nothing happens. I’m sure she is standing there.
“I hear you, Forbes. Open up,” I call through the door. I can feel her frowning, her little brows curling together, her lips pursing.
When she opens the door, I do see it.
Along with her loose gray shirt falling off her shoulder exposing her even tanned skin, her shorts do the same to her long legs and smooth knees. Even her knees are sexy, and I’ve never thought knees would be an arousing thing. But here they are.
“What are you doing here?” Forbes leans in the crack of the door, so I only see a sliver of her red couch in the living room.
“I have a question,” I lie. I don’t know why I’m here, only providence might know, and we aren’t on good terms right now. So, I don’t ask.
Forbes scratches the crown of her head, and the big bun she has piled on top of it shifts. Whatever light she has on casts her golden hair in light, it’s one even tone, proving it really is natural. My eyes glance down, and I stop before they make things obvious.
“I couldn’t call because I don’t have your number,” I add. I step closer to her catching an inhale of her now-familiar scent. Her eyes rove over me, probably sticking to the sweat marks around my neck and chest.
“What, did you run here?” she chides.
“No. I was at the gym, and… I was thinking about you.” My voice lowers like it doesn’t want to get on the same page as me.
She scoffs. “What?” Her brows tighten as she widens her eyes at me.
“I uh… I don’t know. I didn’t get much farther than showing up here, hoping you were still awake.”
“Not really, it’s after ten on a Wednesday night. Do you not have work tomorrow?” Her tone is laced with condescension. I almost roll my eyes at myself for even coming here.
“Yes, I do. But I don’t have a bedtime.”
“What do you want, Dylan?”
“I… a date,” I say quickly.
She laughs, a real one. “First of all, what the hell makes you think I’d go on a date with you? And second, it’s ten on a weeknight.”
“I told you I don’t have a bedtime. And I think you want more with me than to paint me as a villain. You like breakfast for dinner?” I lean in, rolling my lips and raising my brow at her.
Her smooth lips part, but she doesn’t say anything. Not for a little bit. The gears turning in her head make a lot of circles.
We’ve both got tumors of repressed feelings, and it’s time that we treat it.
“I have to get changed. One hour, max.” She holds her finger up at me, and I refrain from chuckling at her.
“Sure.”
I move to step in, and her hands come up on my chest shoving me back.
“Wait here.” She makes a face and walks off, shutting the door behind her. I stare at the blank black door, stunned for a moment.
I take out my phone and silence it, not wanting any distractions. Forbes seems like the one-strike-and-you’re-out type of person. Maybe it’s not a real date because it isn’t daylight or preplanned, but I am planning on sitting down to share a meal with her, talk with her about something other than our usual routine banter.
The door clicks back open quickly. Forbes is now wearing jeans and a loose, long-sleeved tee, the pale pink color meshing with the shine of her hair, still up in its bun. When she steps forward to shut the door, I don’t move back, and her body brushes against mine, even when she steps to the side to fully exit the threshold of the door. I stare down at her as she avoids my gaze, and I remind myself it’s not an appropriate place to respond. After a workout, I’m all over the place.
“I said one hour,” she snaps, walking on to exit the floor.
I follow after her opening her door for her once we get to my car. I faintly remember a diner when I was leaving earlier, but I could be imagining things.
“You don’t like music?” I ask Forbes when she shuts the music off.
She crosses her arms, turns her knees toward the door like she is angry or pretending she doesn’t want to be around me.
“Not that kind of music.” She sighs. It was some mainstream pop song.
“Have you heard Brant’s music?”
“Who is Brant?”
“My brother. The singer.”
“No,” she sighs. “Is it any good?”
I chortle. “Sure. I mean, he’s my brother, so I have to say it is. But I like some of his music.”
“Hmm.” It’s the only response I get from her.
It wasn’t my imagination. I find a simple diner off the turn of the next block, old- fashioned but probably made that way and not from a long time ago.
I park, we go inside, and Forbes doesn’t make any pr
otests. She doesn’t say much of anything when we get settled into a booth and order drinks. Coffee for me, tea for her.
She leans on the brown table and looks off to the left at the television, some sort of comic is on. I settle into the shiny, red leather seat and get used to staring at her.
“You two ready to order?” I don’t notice the server coming by until she does. I glance at her. She’s young and looks like she would rather be anywhere else.
“Sure.” Forbes is serious about this one-hour thing, she sounds off eggs and bacon, and I order the same thing.
“So, you take your eggs scrambled.” I break the silence. Forbes looks at me for the first time.
“Yeah. So?”
“Just taking notes.” I shrug my shoulders.
Forbes smirks, but not in a humor-filled way. She laughs once the same way and narrows her eyes at me.
“You think this false interest thing is going to work with me?”
“It’s not false.”
“What the hell is it for then? To entertain yourself.”
I slide my cup over and lean forward. “I don’t do anything just for the sake of entertainment, Forbes. That kiss at the club, it won’t be the last time.”
“That was… a mistake.” She blinks a few times.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Is that why you brought me here? To dangle it in front of my face.”
I shake my head. “No. And I didn’t bring you here. You came of your own free will. That a mistake, too?”
She licks her lips and leans back. “I don’t know yet.”
I nod at her and sip at my coffee.
It’s shit coffee, so I add a ton of sugar to it.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Forbes. I want to get to know you, have a normal conversation. I’m inclined to think we aren’t good for just kissing up against walls, but not jumping to the conclusion of twisted true love either. I won’t ask you to share any more about your dad or whatever, but everything else is fair game.”
Forbes sighs making a show of rolling her shoulders and squaring her jaw at me. I’ll always have to wonder why she is so up for a fight all the time.
“Are you serious?”
I pick up my phone and check the time.
“Yeah, I’m serious.” I face my phone to her. “We’ve got thirty-seven minutes to treat each other like regular people.”
She arches her finely plucked brow and purses her lips at me.
When she smiles, it isn’t in some condescending way or to laugh at my expense, it’s just a smile.
And it’s beautiful.
"Okay. Fine.” She shrugs like she doesn’t wholeheartedly agree.
“Good. Now, what’s your favorite color?”
16
Forbes
Dylan is an arrogant prick, but I can’t bring myself to be as averted to it as I know I should be.
He does it in such a subtle way that I miss it even after it happens. I was minding my business, in my apartment ready to go to bed, when he showed up. Possibly one of the reasons I was so spooked was because of what I was about to do… ignoring the little voice in my head that reminds me to make good decisions. I left with him.
Granted, he was convincing as hell. Showing up haggard and sweaty but still somehow handsome as hell. What kind of woman would deny it? Not me.
I go to this same diner sometimes when I have late-night cravings and always order eggs and bacon. Luckily, the server I always have isn’t here. She would have sold me out extremely fast.
“I don’t have a favorite color.” I humor Dylan. So sure of himself, but here I am proving him right. I do plan on sticking to this time thing, though. I like to be up early without feeling exhausted.
I keep glancing at the bright red clock in the corner which matches the booths, to try and tell myself that I am watching the time go by.
“That’s so basic. I didn’t take you for a basic person.” He shrugs his shoulder like his word is golden. I scowl and stir my green tea which is barely even green because it’s so generic.
“It’s… purple.” I chew the inside of my lip, nerves starting to come on. I wasn’t nervous around him before because I was too busy channeling my ‘I don’t like him’ energy. Now, I let myself mellow out for a little while. Also, it’s late, and my inhibitions are lowered.
“Why?” he asks.
“Why?” I repeat. He nods once, his thick brow unfurling for only a moment. It’s permanently pulled together like he is constantly connecting dots in his head. I sigh to myself and moisten my lips.
“I spent a lot of time in hospitals when I was younger. Purple was like the only color that wasn’t around. It became my favorite.”
Dylan stares back at me unblinking for a short moment before he clears his throat.
“Why were you in the hospital a lot?” he asks simply.
“Is this twenty questions?”
He shrugs in response, not retracting the question. I’m glad our food arriving helps me avoid it for a little bit. It smells amazing, as always. I eat the same way I would without company. When I take a break from it, after weighing the outcome, I decide to answer his question.
“I was sick. With cardiomyopathy.”
“Isn’t that fatal?”
“In some cases, it depends.”
“So, you’re going to die? Is that why you’re so mean?”
I frown, half laughing with a scoff and ignore him as I finish off the last of my eggs and strip of bacon. He doesn’t bother me, though he has already inhaled his food and watches me.
And somehow, it isn’t in a weird way. At least, I don’t feel weird. He doesn’t watch me like he doesn’t want me to know, to lurk. He watches me like he wants me to see him—notice him paying me mind.
“No, it’s not,” I finally say.
“I was kidding. But it would still make sense.” He leans on his forearms pushing his plate to the side. I glance at his hands, roped with veins, his knuckles strong, the sleeve of his sweatshirt pulls up and exposes a sliver of the hair lining his wrist. I ignore the urge to bite my lip and possibly blush a little bit. Reacting to a man is like lost news to me, but here I am.
“Isn’t a death sentence supposed to make people better not worse?”
“Sure.” His lips twitch as if he might smile. I wonder what that’s all about.
“We’re doing a lot of talking about me and none about you.”
“Do you want to know about me?” He hunches his shoulders.
“No,” I murmur, mostly lying.
“Almost. So, are you still dying?” he asks, the question poses a sinking in my stomach I try to swallow down when it threatens to come up.
“No, I’m not.”
“A miracle?”
I scratch at my arm and wring my fingers together under the table. A shiver passes through me, and I grind my jaw, bite down on my lip, and then exhale softly.
“No. Transplant.”
His brow piques. “No shit. Do you feel like the walking dead or something?”
I almost laugh. Dylan is weird that way in making me do that.
This conversation, though, borders too close to the edge for me. I’m not ready to spill the truth out and hope I don’t slip and fall on it. Or watch him take the dive in the wrong direction.
“Sometimes,” I murmur. I stop pulling on my fingers because it hurts so much and tug at the end of my sweater instead.
“Well, it’s good you’re not dying then.”
I nod. “So, what about you? Or is your life as picture-perfect as it seems.” I drift back to a tight voice and curt assumptions. It’s not my best quality, but it’s the way I know how to talk to him.
It seems to work for us.
“Sure, it is.” His fingers curl around his coffee mug, not moving it.
He gets cagey, eyes downcast, and lips tight. It makes me think I don’t have a good picture of him, and he isn’t a generic blank slate like most everyone else in his position.
> “Okay, I won’t give you any shit…” I glance at the clock, “… for the next twenty minutes.”
He nods once, clears his throat, and is momentarily interrupted by the server coming to clear our plates, and pour more hot water for my tea and coffee for Dylan.
“I’m pretty sure I do have the perfect life barring a few changes.”
I furl my brows and stare at him, intrigued by the change in his voice. Usually even and deep, now varied in the addition of some feeling I’ve never heard before.
“My dad died three years ago. It’s still pretty raw somedays, others not so much.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I mean it because I know exactly how he must feel.
“And… I’ve been working with my brothers for a long time now, everyone else who doesn’t do well for themselves too. On the surface, we all have it perfect.”
“But you don’t really?” I guess.
“Yeah. I don’t know about everyone else. I can take pretty good guesses, but I’ve distanced myself so much, I don’t even really know,” he scoffs and looks off beyond my head. “This past holiday was the first time I even held my niece and nephew. The past few years haven’t been my brightest, and I know that. I don’t know how to fix it.”
He takes a deep breath and looks back at me.
“And I’m not taking suggestions.”
That makes me giggle, and his eyes soften.
“See, you’ve got a pretty smile, pretty laugh. Why not do it more often? Is it the dying thing?”
“I’m not dying.” I swallow, sidestepping his compliment. Most of the time, I think those things are said in jest, but I don’t think about them that way this time.
“Past tense, same difference.”
I sigh to keep from laughing. “What else do you want to ask me? My favorite song?”
“Sure.” The gray of his eyes lights up.
“Don’t have one.” I glance at the clock again.
“So, you were serious about this time thing? You’ve been watching the clock this whole time.”
“I do have work tomorrow.”
“Right. Where do you work?”
“You know I work with Emily. At Arnold Enterprises. Though I guess not for long,” I add, murmuring to myself.
Wilde About Dylon: The Brothers Wilde Series — Book Four Page 11
