by Helena Maeve
Dylan’s friends fell into step behind her like ducklings in a row.
“So does that mean you serve seafood?” asked the pedant of the group.
“No.”
Hazel stood idly by while they crammed themselves into the vinyl booth. At least two of the men seemed perplexed by their surroundings. Dylan wasn’t among them. The intensity of his stare was beginning to render Hazel uncomfortable, but she couldn’t very well throw him out—or, worse, go to Marco and ask him to do the throwing out. He didn’t usually like to interfere until and unless a client took creepiness to the point of groping.
She wasn’t going to risk her job for the likes of Dylan Best.
“No,” Hazel repeated, clearing her throat, “but the pork chops are pretty good. I’ll let you look over the menu.” She couldn’t get away fast enough.
“So?” Sadie murmured as they convened behind the bar under the guise of passing orders back and forth to the kitchen. “What did he say?”
“He’s totally heartbroken. Hasn’t slept a day in five weeks.”
Sadie gave her a playful shove. “You’re the worst. I almost started feeling bad for the guy.”
“You must not have seen his Rolex.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” Sadie promised before sauntering away with a tray filled with sweet potato hash, tamales and French fries.
Out of curiosity, Hazel slanted a glance to Dylan’s table. She wasn’t surprised to find his dark gaze didn’t track Sadie across the diner, but she didn’t know what to do with their eyes locking across the room.
Dylan cut his eyes away first. It didn’t help.
He was perfectly cordial when Hazel went to retrieve their drinks order. The rest of his buddies likewise kept to themselves. They went quiet whenever Hazel returned to their table, as though whatever it was they were discussing was too important to let strangers overhear.
It was a relief to drop off their check an hour later. Whenever she turned back to the room, she couldn’t shake the sense that someone was watching her—and that said someone was Dylan.
She jumped when she heard him clear his throat from the other side of the counter.
“Do you take credit cards?” he asked, holding up the check.
“Yeah…” You couldn’t wait until I came back to your table to ask? Hazel rolled her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She’d made it this far without causing a scene, she could go a little further.
Dylan slid his leather wallet out of his coat. Hazel suspected it probably cost as much as her rent. It even smelled new.
She glanced away as she waited for him to hand over his Visa.
“Did you have a good time?”
Marco insisted on friendliness. Clients want to feel special. That’s why they come here instead of the Olive Garden across the street. It’s all about the dining experience.
Hazel often wondered if he’d swallowed a marketing course book.
“Yes, it was great,” Dylan replied, too kneejerk to be sincere.
Hazel aimed her smile at the cash register. “Your buddies are like fish out of water.”
“It’s their first time out of Century City.”
“Ouch. Culture shock,” Hazel drawled. She knew where she stood with the Brentwood types—easily recognized outside their leafy green territory by the faint sneers they all wore when exposed to the common folk—but Century City mostly kept to itself. It was busy enough that its residents never really needed to venture out, except perhaps into equally hectic Beverly Hills.
They certainly never traveled as far as Marco’s for the sake of a burger. Dylan must have deliberately taken them out of their natural habitat. And he had brought them here, to the hole in the wall where Sadie worked.
“You’re not from around here either, are you?” Dylan ventured.
“No.”
“Me neither.”
“You blend in well,” Hazel countered. “I look at your foursome and I can barely tell the difference.”
Dylan winced and pressed a hand to his chest. “That bad?” He took his credit card back with a headshake. “Then I suppose there’s no point asking if you’d like to have coffee sometime.”
“I don’t drink coffee.” Wait, what?
No one was more surprised than Hazel at the answer, but Dylan’s jaw actually seemed to go a little slack, like he couldn’t believe she hadn’t shot him down.
“Okay… Tea?”
“In California?”
“Water?” Dylan guessed. “Or—would you have dinner with me?”
No way. Sadie was shooting her wary glances from across the room, probably wondering if she should interject. Other patrons were waiting for their orders, their checks. Urgency slithered under Hazel’s skin, throbbing like a headache.
“Yeah, okay,” she heard herself reply. It was a strange, almost out of body experience, watching astonishment morph into pleasure on Dylan’s lips.
“Tomorrow night?”
Hazel grimaced. “I have to work… Monday? My shift ends at six.” She wanted nothing more than to excise that finagling, apologetic note in her voice.
Why was she trying to accommodate him? She couldn’t be considering this with any real degree of interest. Agreeing to dinner isn’t the same as going. Dylan wouldn’t be the first guy she had stood up.
Going to dinner isn’t the same as sleeping with him. Her track record over the past three years begged to differ.
“You done?” asked one of Dylan’s buddies, clamping a hand onto his shoulder.
He straightened. “Yes. Thank you,” he added, speaking strictly to Hazel.
“Hope to see you back soon.” She couldn’t believe the words had come out of her mouth until he was out of the diner, one with the evening gloom.
Sadie materialized at her elbow. “What did he want?”
“To ask me out.” It didn’t occur to Hazel to lie.
“Wow… What a creep.”
“Thanks,” Hazel scoffed.
Sadie smacked her lips. “That’s not what I meant… He didn’t even say hi to me. And now he’s asking you out, knowing I’m watching?” Sadie clucked her tongue. “Dick move.”
Of course, why else would he do it?
“Yeah.” Maybe Sadie was right. Maybe there was nothing more to Dylan’s offer than an attempt to punish Sadie. He wouldn’t be the first jerk who liked to slap a woman around in bed and meddle in her life outside of it. Hazel had time to figure it out until Monday night.
She was probably going to cancel.
Chapter Three
Hazel had been going to cancel. She had his number. She could have done it by text—pretend something came up and avoid what was sure to be an uncomfortable evening with a man who wasn’t even interested in her.
She hadn’t done it Sunday night because Fried Green Tomatoes had been on. She hadn’t done it Monday morning because she’d had just an hour before work to go to the gym and ignore the leering meatheads. By Monday at lunch, it had seemed like short notice, which was why that evening at six o’clock, she found herself leaving the diner with Dylan beside her.
Sadie caught her eye on the way out and pursed her lips. They hadn’t talked about the offer since Saturday. She must have thought the matter settled.
“So, where do you want to go?” Dylan asked and opened the passenger door to a silver Tesla. “I imagine you must be sick of diners by now—”
“Do you cook?” Hazel cut in.
He hesitated. “Sort of?”
“Farmer’s market is on the way.” If you can’t beat ’em, make them as uncomfortable as you can. “We can grab a few things. I’ll make a casserole.” If growing up in the Midwest had taught Hazel anything, it was never to underestimate the emotional balm of a hearty, cheese-filled dish.
Dylan pushed past bemusement with a shrug. “Farmer’s market it is.” He slid so elegantly behind the wheel that the leather seats didn’t dare squeak.
As soon as he powered the engine, a warble of electric
guitar and earworm drumming filled the inside of the sleek interior of the car. Dylan wasn’t quick enough to dim the volume before Hazel recognized the singer.
“You listen to Momo Wu?”
“You know c-pop?” Dylan arched an eyebrow.
Hazel shrugged. “Some. It’s Sadie’s way of keeping in touch with her roots.” What’s your excuse?
“Oh, I hadn’t realized.”
“Really.” It was Hazel’s turn to let disbelief flash across her face. Despite the dyed blonde hair, Sadie made no secrets of her origins. She’d gone through a phase back in college when she had decked herself out in cheongsams and paper fans. It might have been a cry for attention. Hazel couldn’t say.
She had been too busy crying for herself back then.
Dylan prudently joined the flow of traffic. “I don’t mean… She didn’t mention I’m studying Mandarin?” He chanced a glance at Hazel, who merely pressed her lips into a thin line.
Of course Dylan would assume they had spent hours conferring about his quirks. Pop culture agreed that overthinking was an intrinsic female trait.
“There’s a chance I might be moving to Shanghai,” he added by way of explanation. “The whole connecting with your roots thing… I’m trying that, too. And audio books only get me so far.”
It was too earnest to be easily dismissed. Hazel nearly regretted her quick tongue. “So you’re bridging the gap with Chinese pop music?”
“I almost have Lady First memorized,” Dylan boasted.
“For its musical virtues or the knee sock-wearing songstresses?” Hazel bit the inside of her cheek. “You know, that calls for a demonstration…”
Dylan’s grin dug dimples into his clean-shaven cheeks. “Maybe after dinner.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” Hazel added weakly, trying to hold back a smirk. So much for putting him on the spot. Dylan seemed to be up to the challenge. How c-pop karaoke fit with the rich and powerful alpha male shtick, she couldn’t say, but experience confirmed that no Dominant was all whips and chains all the time.
Sometimes they dabbled in flash photography, as well.
Hazel turned her head so Dylan wouldn’t catch her biting her lip and squeezing her eyes shut.
They made a quick stop at the market. On Hazel’s orders, Dylan remained in the car while she availed herself of fresh produce. She got fennel, broccoli and cauliflower, plus a couple of tomatoes for color. Not knowing if Dylan had any bacon in the house, she bought that, too, as well as an indispensable block of cheddar. Dylan grinned through the windshield when he saw her return with arms laden.
“This looks promising,” he said, rushing to help her with the bags. “Are we feeding a regiment?”
“You’ll be eating like one when I’m done with you.” It almost sounded like flirting, but since Hazel seldom did that anymore, she couldn’t be sure it qualified.
“Promises, promises,” Dylan sighed, but that delighted grin didn’t leave his lips until they had made their way to his apartment. There it flickered and died abruptly, his face falling as he cut off the engine. He made no move to pull the key from the ignition. He was staring fixedly at the BMW parked outside four-seven-one Aulden Way as though the hood emblem offended him.
“Is…everything okay?” Hazel asked, old fears surfacing like oil in water.
“Yeah, it’s just…” Dylan frowned. “I was counting on telling you this over dinner…”
“You’re married.”
“What? No—”
“You have a girlfriend and that’s her car?” Somehow, Hazel successfully kept her voice from shaking. She felt calm, if a little disappointed. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t received ample warning to stay away from Dylan Best. The universe could only do so much to make her pay attention.
He shook his head. “Not a girlfriend. Not anything, really… I don’t live alone. My, uh, roommate and I have an arrangement.”
His gaze was soft when he met Hazel’s eyes, pleading with her to understand. She rolled her eyes. “If it makes her uncomfortable when you bring girls home, I think you both need a reality check.”
“It’s not a ‘her’,” Dylan replied tersely. Hazel couldn’t pretend his firm rebuke didn’t send a zing through her body. “Nor is it a matter of discomfort.” His expression shifted in and out of distress as he squeezed the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. We could have dinner somewhere else. I know a few good restaurants.”
“Or we could go to my place.” Clearly the filter between Hazel’s brain and her mouth was in a state of disrepair. Either that or Mama was right all along—pop music really does rot your brain. “I mean,” she hastened to add, “we could totally call it a night, but…”
“Won’t that be weird, with Sadie there?”
Hazel frowned, puzzled. “Why would Sadie be in my apartment?” Again that stubborn ache roiled in the pit of Hazel’s stomach. “Did you…? Did you want her to be there?”
The suspicion that Dylan was angling for some sort of three-way romp surged to the forefront of her thoughts once again. It had served as reassurance the first time they met—if Dylan was just another randy hog, then Hazel didn’t need to examine the butterflies in her belly or consider that she might be attracted to her friend’s one-night stand.
“I thought you guys lived together,” he said, shaking his head.
That’s not an answer. “We don’t,” Hazel retorted curtly. She didn’t want to dig any deeper.
Dylan smiled. “Oh. Okay. Then sure, yeah. Let’s have dinner at your place.”
When Hazel offered no further protest, they peeled away from the curb with a squeal of tires, leaving four-seven-one Aulden and its conspicuous BMW in the dust.
* * * *
Hazel’s apartment was one of four units on the sixth floor of a nondescript building in the southernmost tip of South Los Angeles. They were, technically, not quite part of the city, not really considered ‘the suburbs’. Accordingly, rent was affordable and the amenities in her area left much to be desired. The potholed streets tested the Tesla’s suspensions as Hazel played GPS.
“I know it doesn’t look it, but it’s pretty safe,” she ventured.
“I’m not worried,” Dylan said, but the narrowed-eyed gaze he directed at his surroundings belied that sentiment.
He insisted on helping Hazel with the groceries, which meant that she had no choice but to brave the stairs empty-handed. To fill the silence, she found herself calling attention to every snag in their path the way a tour guide would be pointing out landmarks in Hollywood. And on your right, behold a suspicious yellow stain. Mind you, don’t step in it with your expensive Italian shoes!
The elevator was once again out of order.
It was a relief to unlatch her apartment door and lead the way inside. Hazel gulped down a couple of breaths, her pulse thumping in her ears. “Put the bags down wherever…” The entryway led directly into the living room, which itself led into the bedroom. The kitchen lay to the left of the front door, as narrow as it was dark.
Dylan picked the chipped counter to deposit the groceries, pushing a couple of boxes of cereal aside to make room. If he noticed the decrepit cupboards or the paint peeling from the window frames, he didn’t let on. Concern twisted at his features when he turned back to heaving, panting Hazel. “You all right?”
“I hate taking the stairs.”
“But it’s so good for you,” Dylan needled. “Like broccoli.” His grin seemed taxing somehow, like he was struggling to play the joker though he didn’t feel up to the part.
He seemed to be waiting for Hazel to grill him about the roommate. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel a little tempted. None of my business. The longer it stayed that way, the better. Curiosity was a two-way street.
“Okay. Cheese casserole. I know you said you don’t cook, but if I give you a knife and tell you to chop things, we won’t end up in the ER, right?”
Dylan smirked. “I said I sort of cook. More precisely, I’m an expert slicer and
dicer.” He slowly peeled off his jacket and hung it from the back of an armchair, fastidiously brushing away an imaginary bit of lint.
Even as she watched him roll up his sleeves, Hazel had a hard time picturing Dylan in shorts and cotton tee. His ‘look’ was so painstakingly put together that she felt like a reject from the nineties by comparison. At least she’d thought to iron-curl her hair this morning. Some of the whorls still held out after a day’s work, bouncing on her shoulders as she unloaded the vegetables and got the oven running.
Between the two of them, they assembled the ingredients quickly. Dylan took direction like he did everything else—gracefully, with a nod of thanks when Hazel corrected him. She tried not to get too bogged down in tweaking the way he held the knife or the size of the florets carved.
No one likes a nag, as her last boyfriend would say.
“So… Did Sadie tell you we lived together?” Hazel asked, sliding the casserole into the oven.
“No. Now that I think of it, she didn’t.” Dylan tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged. He cut a distracting picture, holding up the doorframe with his shoulder. “I must have inferred.”
“Is it weird that I live alone?”
“It’s…convenient.” He smiled with half a mouth.
“Sometimes,” Hazel agreed. She’d finished wiping her hands dry on the dishcloth, but couldn’t remember what to do with it after that. “Occasionally it also means that I forget to buy basic necessities, like wine or beer… I have some iced tea, if you want. Or gin?” She could practically hear her mother tut-tutting from eighteen hundred miles away.
“Why not both?”
It was that flash of genius that had them retiring to the couch with a half-empty bottle of Seagram’s Extra Dry and two cans of iced tea, grimacing in unison as they tasted the blend.
“Oh my God,” Hazel choked out, “that’s foul.”
Dylan gagged discreetly. Then he burst out laughing. “This might be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.” He took another sip as if to check and coughed. “Yep, it’s confirmed.”
“I’d apologize, but it was your idea…”
