Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Page 8

  For a split second, I picture myself in a movie, dropping my towel and having a guy crazy for my irresistible body. Then I shake the ridiculous notion from my mind and grapple for the bedroom door handle.

  Stepping into my room, I close and rest against the door, heart thumping. I have to get out of this house and away from him; clear my senses of the Dylan Effect.

  *****

  I drive to a nearby town and wander the tourist shops where I proceed to buy a pile of junk I will never do anything with apart from put in a drawer. Cute pottery figures of dragons, pretty notepads with matching pens, and a snow globe for my collection. When I was six, Gran bought me a snow globe from her visit to Scotland. Half a dozen snow globes later my family decided this unintentional collection was a hobby, and since then snow globes are the gift received from holidaying relatives. This globe has a summer beach scene inside which is plain odd.

  I chose this town due to the size of the cream teas at the central cafe. Inside, I sit on a wicker chair at a table covered by a red and white tablecloth and wait for my order. A young girl, with dark hair scraped into a ponytail, brings me a metal pot of tea and a huge scone accompanied by small pots of jam and cream.

  Tucking into my scone, I gaze around the small cafe. Tables are crammed together and most of the customers are older than me, and couples. Licking cream from my fingers, I have a pang of loneliness. Last time I came here was with Grant, and he frowned at me for using all the cream on my scone. I picture him - brown hair touching his ears and the sparkling green eyes that drew me to him all those years ago. But I don’t miss Grant; the knot in my stomach is because of Dylan. If Dylan were with me, we’d chat and laugh. He’d tease me and I’d retort until we reached stalemate. Then he’d kiss me.

  Whoever this man is, I’m caught in a gravitational pull to him I’ve never had before. As if a part of me and part of him knew each other before and are reconnecting. Which is bullshit, according to my non-romantic brain, but perfectly logical to characters in the books I read.

  Dylan stays in my thoughts as I drive back to Broadbeach as I wonder what he’s spent the day doing, and feeling sad that he’s basically stuck where he is. How can he be so famous, people around here would recognise him? He’s being too cautious, it’s not as if he’s royalty.

  A trip back to Asda on the way home is required (Sorry again, Mrs Hughes). This time, I buy a sensible mix of all food groups, although some are better represented than others (crisps equals vegetables, right?). I’m happy with the fact I have ingredients to make actual meals, rather than pre-packed rubbish, although, those curries in the refrigerated section do look good…

  Curries. Dylan. I should’ve left the night I dropped the curry on the floor. That was a sign, right? A waste of good curry, but I think, even then, something imperceptible linked us. So who am I kidding? I couldn’t leave then, I couldn’t go yesterday, and I’m returning to Dylan now.

  The magazine section taunts me. I could casually flick through a couple of the magazines I never touch, to see if I can find Dylan’s name or face. Or if he’s famous enough, he may even be on the cover with a lurid headline - or a lurid woman.

  I ignore the magazines, pay, and leave.

  As I lug carrier bags from my car to the house in the drizzling rain, I mutter under my breath about the lack of Dylan who could help. When I get inside, the sound of water running in the bathroom upstairs flashes images of a naked Dylan across my vision. I dump the bags on the table and return to the cold drizzle.

  The cupboards in the kitchen are narrow and full of plates, so there’s little room for my purchases. I squat on the floor attempting to fit rice and pasta into the cupboard and don’t notice Dylan come into the room.

  “I’ll help you unpack,” he says.

  In response, I bang my head on the cupboard I’m leaning inside, and shoot him a look while rubbing my head. “Thanks.”

  He’s wearing a remorseful expression, but no shirt and his hair is damp. Exactly like the first time I saw him in the house. But without my knickers in his hands.

  “Sorry about earlier,” he says, “you have a weird effect on me.”

  I ignore the comment. “Is the semi-nakedness to try and distract me?”

  He smirks. “Possibly.”

  I make a ‘humph’ noise and return to my unpacking.

  Dylan pulls items from one of the bags and inspects them. “I should give you some money. I’m eating your stuff.”

  “Maybe go and buy your own then!”

  He makes no response. I straighten and take a jar of sauce from the table.

  “I can’t. Can I?” he asks.

  “You can’t hide forever.”

  The old, tired look reappears and he runs his tongue along his teeth. “I know.”

  Obviously, he’s not elaborating or leaving to go shopping soon, so I carry on, ignoring the shaking hands and queasy feeling in my stomach.

  “So I take it from all this food that you’re staying then?” he asks.

  “Of course, why would I go?”

  “Because you said you’re uncomfortable with…this.”

  “There’s room here for both of us. You can pay me for food if you want.” Sod the healthy food. I need biscuits. I tear open a packet of chocolate digestives with my teeth.

  A small smirk appears on Dylan’s face. “Sky…”

  “What?”

  “You, you’re so natural and wonderful and downright fucking funny.”

  “Don’t start the games again!” I shove a biscuit into my mouth and flick the switch on the kettle.

  Grinning, he grabs a biscuit and imitates me.

  “Not used to girls who eat?” I snap. “Prefer the skinny ones who starve themselves?”

  “This is about yesterday still? I don’t prefer skinny girls.” He places a hand over mine.

  I want to pull my fingers away, but his touch and his closeness is annoyingly soothing.

  “Please don’t,” I say quietly.

  “Hmm.” Dylan rubs a biscuit crumb from the corner of my mouth and I tense. “Okay, I’ll cook something, to say thank you for sharing with me.”

  “No, it’s okay…”

  “Do you think I can’t cook?”

  “I think you don’t cook much, Mr Rock God.”

  Dylan steps back, face darkening. “Don’t take the piss.”

  “Don’t behave like one!”

  “You’re very feisty tonight.”

  “Some guy pissed me off.”

  “Then he needs to make things up to you.”

  I wipe my hands on my shorts. “Okay, cook. I’m cold and I’m getting changed.”

  After extricating myself from the presence of the man who I resolved was not going to affect me again, I stomp upstairs. I’m annoyed with myself for still wanting his hands and mouth on mine. And for still wanting to know what sex with Dylan would be like. Talk about mood swings, I don’t think I know what I want anymore.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sexual tension. This is what I’m walking into when I go downstairs, and I’m not used to tension. I stare at my reflection as I pull fingers through my damp hair. Brushing would send the blonde waves into a frizz. Grant said girls should wear make-up if they wanted to look pretty and freckles are ugly so I should cover them up. I’ve not worn a scrap of make-up since I left him.

  What does Dylan think when he looks at me?

  What does his opinion matter? From now on, I’m me and the world can get knotted if they don’t like the Sky I am.

  I rummage through the clothes stuffed into my rucksack, and pull out the least creased T-shirt I can find. It’s dark blue with a Disney character on the front, my slouching, beach holiday clothes. I groan, but the other items are summer dresses and I feel…exposed in those. The underwear I have to choose from isn’t much better. Not all as bad as the pair Dylan had hooked on his fingers the first night, but no matching set. The realisation I’m debating what underwear to put on for eating dinner with Dylan is a s
hock. He doesn’t want sex anyway. Pulling on my denim shorts, I head towards the fragrant smell downstairs.

  Disappointingly, Dylan has managed to find himself a T-shirt with a different band picture on the same faded black cotton.

  “Is this one you?” I ask pointing to the symbol.

  “I knew you were going to ask that. No.”

  I shrug. “What are you cooking?”

  Steam rises from the sizzling and spitting pan behind and he turns to stir.

  “Stir-fry chicken with some sauce you bought.” He holds up the jar. “And noodles.” He points to the boiling water in the pan next to it.

  “Very impressive.”

  “Reserve judgement until you’ve eaten.”

  “I’ll read my book while you finish then,” I say, walking away.

  “Aren’t you going to help? Get plates or something?” he calls after me.

  “Nope!” I grin. Maybe I’ll help wash up.

  The billionaire and his PA are getting hot and heavy in the elevator when Dylan interrupts my reading.

  “Put down your smut, and come and eat.” He leans over the sofa behind me, his spicy Dylan scent connecting with the words on the page. I’m reading about sex when attempting not to think about it? Smart move… I should’ve put the book down as soon as the story got as steamy as the boiling noodles.

  I snap the book closed. “This isn’t smut! If it was smut, there’d be no plot.”

  He arches an eyebrow; I doubt there’s any point discussing my choice in reading material with him.

  The small dining table contains two mismatched plates filled with noodles, vegetables and chicken. I sit and inhale the mouth-watering smell rising from the plate.

  “Not bad,” I say.

  “I knew you’d want wine…” He pours a glass.

  “Are you having one?” I ask as he pours a second. “I thought you were dry.”

  Dylan shrugs. “One glass, I can control myself.”

  The connotation of his words doesn’t go unnoticed, so I pick my fork up, and push it into the middle of the mound of food.

  “Noodles,” I remark, twirling some around my fork.

  “Perceptive.”

  “A tip for you - don’t cook a girl something she could spill all over herself on a first date.”

  “Date?”

  I cringe. “I mean, in the future, when you date.”

  He scoffs. “I don’t date.”

  I bite the noodles so I can’t comment.

  “I’d date you though,” he says quietly.

  My stomach shrinks at his comment. Great, I was looking forward to the noodles. Ignoring him, I stab at a piece of chicken.

  “Sky?”

  “How exactly would you date me, Dylan? When you can’t go anywhere in case every teenage girl in the world descends on you?”

  “After this.”

  I place the fork on the table, heart turning rapid fire. “After what?”

  “When we go…back, I want to see you again.”

  “You’re delusional.” However, his eyes tell a different story. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Isn’t that the idea of dates, to get to know someone?”

  The noodles stick as my mouth dries. “I don’t think…”

  Dylan reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Come on, people do this all the time. They meet, like each other and start dating. I want to try doing that with you.”

  “I don’t think dating is something that would happen between the real Sky and Dylan, do you?”

  “Why?”

  “Who are you really Dylan Morgan? From what you’ve hinted, you don’t even live in the same country as me, or the same world.” I pause. “We’re living in an illusion. Where you’re Dylan, I’m Sky and the rest of the world doesn’t exist. As soon as we step outside of the fantasy, we won’t exist anymore.”

  I wait for an answer as he stares at his plate, but he ignores my question. “I’ll take that as no?”

  I don’t reply.

  His face tightens, and I again get the feeling people don’t say no to him often. Silently, Dylan continues his meal, the tension between us thick. I gulp down wine and refill my glass. I want Dylan to want me, but yesterday he didn’t. He’s confusing the hell out of me.

  “Okay,” he says eventually. “Let’s talk about something else. Can we carry on with this…arrangement? Will you get to know your Dylan a bit more?”

  “My Dylan?”

  “The Dylan only you know.” The intensity in his eyes pulls at my resolve.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Not the person I left in London three days ago. The guy you’re reconnecting me with; giving life to.”

  “I think you’re doing that yourself.”

  “With the help of a smart-mouthed girl who doesn’t take any shit from me, yeah, I am.” His eyes shine.

  I can’t help but smile. “Okay, I can carry on smart-mouthing you for another few days if you love it that much.”

  “I do,” he says quietly and carries on eating.

  We clear the plates, returning to the relaxed banter of earlier, ignoring talk of the real world again.

  “About yesterday,” says Dylan as I empty my third glass of wine.

  Oh, nicely played, he starts on me when I’m more ‘relaxed’. “Yesterday doesn’t matter. Forget it.”

  “Yesterday matters to me, because I upset you. Can I explain?”

  I shrug and top up my glass.

  “I’m selfish, spoilt and always get what I want.”

  “Nice line in self-deprecation, Dylan.”

  “Can you listen for once, instead of playing word games with me?”

  I make a zipping motion across my lips and he gives a tiny shake of his head. “I wanted to prove to myself that I could be different to the selfish, spoilt guy I am; the one who takes what he wants and doesn’t give a fuck about someone else’s feelings. That’s why I stopped.”

  He pauses and after a few moments I realise he’s waiting for a response.

  “Oh. Okay. Well, how about I’m not the normal kind of girl you meet and I’d tell you to stop? Or are you telling me you couldn’t stop yourself?”

  Dylan grips his wine glass, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “No,” he says darkly. “Never.”

  “This is funny; you’re talking as if you want to protect my honour or something. I’m not a virgin, I’m perfectly aware of what I’m doing and what I want.”

  I blush at his slow smile. “What you want?”

  “I didn’t mean…” But the shallow breathing has started again.

  Reaching a hand across the table, Dylan rubs his thumb across the back, shooting familiar sensations up my arm. “You do weird things to me, and I want to get to know you to figure out why.”

  I run my finger around the rim of the glass, defences pierced so soon. “Fine, take me on a date then.”

  The grin that lights up Dylan’s face and my world appears. “Awesome, thank you.”

  I slip my hand from under his and return to my meal.

  Several more glasses of wine later, I pay a visit to the bathroom and come downstairs to the humorous sight of the rock god and the washing up.

  “I said I’d do that. You cooked.”

  The sink is practically overflowing and the soapsuds spilling out. Several of Dylan’s rings rest next to the sink. His arms are covered in soapsuds up to his elbows, his face a mix of confusion and amusement. “I think I put too much soap in?” I giggle at him and he frowns. “So I don’t wash up often. I have a dishwasher.”

  “I bet you don’t load the plates.”

  “Sometimes.”

  I raise an ‘I doubt it’ eyebrow.

  “Okay, no.”

  The childish Dylan glint enters his eyes, one I’m becoming all too familiar with.

  “Twenty-four years old and you don’t know how to wash-up? You’ll never make anyone a good wife,” I tell
him.

  Scooping up a handful of bubbles, he wipes them down my face. “You’ll have to teach me.”

  “Hey!” I wipe them off and scoop a handful of my own.

  “Don’t you dare!” Dylan steps back, fighting a smile.

  Grinning back, I wipe the bubbles down his freshly shaved face. Dylan growls and grabs my wrist dragging me to his chest. Holding both wrists with one hand, he scoops a handful and rubs them into my hair. Shrieking, I wriggle from his grip, ducking away from him. Before I can move two steps, he grabs me from behind, powerful arms holding my waist. I lean away from him, dragging at his fingers.

  “Keep still!”

  “No more bubbles! Sorry!” I gasp.

  I’m not sorry he wants to touch me again. Definitely not sorry to be held against his hard, muscled torso, and have his hands touching my skin where my T-shirt has ridden up.

  Dylan pushes me towards the sink. We’re both facing the bubbled water but I can’t reach them because my arms are trapped. I tense, waiting for the soaking.

  “No, please!” I’m gasping with laughter, giving the wrong impression.

  “What if I don’t want to let you go?” he whispers, and then nips my earlobe. Dylan releases my waist and runs both hands beneath my T-shirt, palms across my stomach. “What if I want to apologise for before?”

  I can’t move, his hips pinning me to the kitchen bench. “I don’t know…”

  He kisses my neck, running his tongue along my shoulder before nipping my collarbone. I hitch a breath as he pulls my hips towards him, his arousal against my back surprising me.

  “Oh…”

  Dylan turns me around and pushes aside the items left on the kitchen bench. “I stopped because the selfish, spoilt Dylan wanted you.” He holds me around the waist and lifts me onto the bench. “But if I make this about you instead, that’s not selfish, right?”

  “Oh…” Jeez, where’s my power of speech gone?

  “Can I kiss you again?”

  “I think you’re right; you do need to find a new way to relate to women,” I say breathlessly.

  Pressing himself between my legs, hard muscled thigh against mine, Dylan pulls my hair into a ponytail and wraps it around his hand. “Currently, this is the only way I know how.” Placing his mouth softly on mine, he runs his tongue lightly across my lips, setting a soft buzz across my face.