“Last night was great,” I say again, “but like I said at the bar, I’m not looking to get involved with anyone right now.” Been there. Done that.Notinterested.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and her gaze drops to her heels. “Oh, yeah. Of course. Sorry.”
Another apology. Who is this woman and what did she do with the one who told me she wanted my balls in her mouth? “No need to apologize,” I say, right when my phone buzzes with a notification. “Looks like your car is here.” Thank god. Shit was about to get awkward. I hold open the door and give her a peck on the cheek because I’m not completely heartless. “Have a good one.”
Her smile returns. “Thanks, Dylan. You too.”
Well, shit. Now I feel like even more of an asshole because she remembers my name. Still, I give her a friendly wave before she disappears into the elevator, her eyes holding mine right until the doors close. Relief spills through me when I shut my own door. Nights out are fun. The mornings after? Not so much.
Maybe I should stop inviting women over and just go to their place. Then I can leave whenever I want. Not that I’d sneak out in the middle of the night. Hayley had that happen once and cried about it for a week. I’m notthatguy.
But staying over means sleeping on someone else’s mattress. I may only be thirty, but I need my beauty rest.
I shuffle into the kitchen to make myself a quick cup of coffee, grab a yogurt from the fridge, and head straight for my laptop on the island.
While waiting for my inbox to refresh, I bask in the warm sunlight streaming through the wall of windows overlooking Congress Avenue. There’s something cathartic about living in one of the tallest buildings in a city like Austin and being able to sit back and watch the world go by, knowing you don’t have to be part of it if you don’t feel like it.
My stomach lets out an angry growl. I’m not sure peach yogurt is going to cut it today. You know what sounds good? A plate of biscuits and gravy from that diner a few blocks over. Although their coffee tastes like toilet water. Would it be rude to bring a mug of my own brew from home?
A flood of new messages pops up on my screen, distracting me from my hunger. This is why I can’t take a day off. If I don’t take care of these, come Monday morning, I’ll be swamped and end up spending half of my day playing catch-up. I’d hire an assistant, except the thought of having to spend that much time with someone I don’t know makes me want to hide in the darkroom and never emerge, like that weird hairless creature from the Lord of the Rings.
The thought turns my stomach.
Or that could be the two shots of tequila that Not-Miss-Susie and I took when we got here. My sisters would murder me if they found out I’d forgotten a woman’s name while she was still in my bed. Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.
I delete the handful of junk emails that have found their way into my inbox, despite the filters that my sister Alex (short for Alexis, but don’t ever call her that unless you want her to throw your favorite hat into a fire) put in place.
Looks like my royalties from the stock photo sites I’ve listed with have doubled since last month. And one of the photos I took in Nashville a few weeks back has been short-listed for another award. If I win, it’ll be another one to add to the resume—not that I’m asking for more work. Half the emails I receive are from people looking to hire me to photograph their products, aspiring models wanting headshots for their portfolio, or magazines asking if I’d be interested in freelance work.
Being tied down with contracts and deadlines sounds like my own personal version of hell.
If something really interests me, I’ll take it, but most of the time, I shoot what I want and see what happens. Probably not the best business model, but I’m not short on cash, and even if I were, my trust fund is always there to fall back on.
I’ve just made myself a second cup of coffee when Hayley’s name pops up on my phone. Saturday morning at nine o’clock—right on schedule after a Friday night out. I answer with a laugh. “Hey, Buttons. I was wondering if I’d hear from you today.” That’s right. I call my baby sister Buttons because she used to collect them. And I don’t mean casually. She had multiple boxes of the things.
Her broken sob bursts through the speaker. I rub my hand down my face and sigh as I close my laptop. If this is anything like the last time, it’s going to take a while.
I decide to pre-empt whatever rant she’s about to go on and show my support like a good big brother. “Yes, all men are assholes—even me. We all belong in the pits of hell with our dicks on fire. We definitely don’t deserve good women like you. And no, I don’t know where the good ones are hiding, but if I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.” That should about cover it. I take a sip of my coffee and—dammit.Burn my fucking tongue.
For some reason, my words don’t make her laugh the way they usually do, which makes me sit up straighter. “Hayley? What’s wrong?”
“It’s Mom and Dad,” she sniffs, her voice breaking.
My heart stalls in my chest, and my hands begin to shake.
“They’re gone, Dyl. They’re both gone.”
CHAPTERTWO
JADE
I gluemy eyes to my phone in a silent SOS, but Mrs. Horne doesn’t take the hint.
She shuffles closer to the counter, leans over the cash register, and continues telling me in excruciating detail about her clock collection while my thumb swipes through the dismal string of matchups in my dating app.
“All of them have very long pendulums,” Mrs. Horne says.
I snicker at the timing of that comment and pause on the profile of a cute guy in a paramedic uniform. Mrs. Horne keeps talking, and I try to pay attention because she’s clearly lonely, which is why I always greet her with a smile. But grandfather clocks don’t exactly get my pulse pumping. You know what does? Customers spending money in my family’s convenience store so we can make our loan payment this month. And Mrs. Horne—who’s come in daily ever since she moved to Still Springs eight weeks ago—hasn’t bought so much as a stick of chewing gum.
