Page 88 of Not Just for Christmas

I tied my dressing gown tighter across my chest, already feeling the loss of his warmth. ‘Because it would have broken Sam’s heart; I couldn’t do that to him.’

He pressed a hand to his forehead, looking utterly confused. ‘So all this “I’m so glad you’re here” stuff was a lie?’

I’d gone too far, and I could have kicked myself. How had I managed to play this all so wrong? My throat burned with the effort of not crying and I scarcely managed to form a reply. ‘I didn’t lie.’

He threw his hands up, his face bewildered. ‘So what is it? Do you want me here or not?’

Yes.

Despite the fear that this was wrong, despite my grief, no longer as sharp, but always there, I did want him.

The truth exploded like a firework inside me, a million sparks lighting me up. The chemistry between us was incredible and undeniable. And for the few seconds I’d lost myself in the moment, I’d felt alive, sexy … I’d felt like me again for the first time in a long time. But more than that, his presence at Merrydown had brought a new energy, an air of possibility. I was sure even Sam had been affected by it.

I stared at him, deliberating how to put my thoughts into words, and my heart squeezed with a love I’d only just dared to acknowledge.

I took a deep breath. ‘Dylan, I do—’

The sudden ring of his phone from on top of the piano startled us both.

‘Sorry. It’s Will.’ His eyes shifted from mine guiltily. ‘I’ll have to take it.’

‘Sure.’ I nodded tightly, sinking onto the piano stool.

Work. Always work.

‘Hey.’ Dylan tapped the screen. ‘You do know it’s one a.m. in the UK, right?’

‘Yeah, but I’ve been stuck with lawyers all day, and only just picked up your message. Are you kidding me? Pulling out of the press day?’ Will gave a harsh laugh. ‘You can’t. It’s impossible.’

‘It’s Jack’s anniversary.’ Dylan raked a hand through his hair. ‘There’s stuff I need to do.’

‘Listen, I don’t care if it’s the King’s birthday, it’s way too late to back out now.’

‘Hey, have some respect.’ Dylan’s voice was quiet but there was no mistaking the anger in it. ‘You’re on speakerphone, Lucy’s here with me.’

Will hesitated. ‘OK, I apologise, but seriously? National radio, a Sunday broadsheet and a glossy men’s magazine. Not to mention the strings I had to pull to get Phoenix Records to host you this close to Christmas.’

‘I don’t like letting you down, but I didn’t ask for any of this,’ Dylan pointed out.

‘Who is working for who here?’ I whispered for Dylan’s ears only. Surely Will should be looking after his interests and not the other way around.

Dylan raised his eyebrows. I know, right, he seemed to say.

‘Listen, the car is booked for the morning,’ Will ploughed on, ‘one of the guys from publicity will take care of you for the whole day; I’ve got you a fantastic hotel in Trafalgar Square. I’ll have you back in Devon on Christmas Eve. Promise.’

Dylan exhaled wearily; I could see he was torn.

For the whole of his adult life, he’d poured his heart and soul into his career; he was a success not just because he was talented but because he put in the hours. He had a reputation for being one of the good guys, a professional, no sleazy headlines, no bad behaviour. The public loved him, and always would. Dylan wouldn’t be able to step away from this world; it wasn’t just his job, it was who he was.

He couldn’t change if he wanted to.

As if a lightbulb had been turned on, I got a sudden glimpse of what my future with Dylan might look like – our future, mine and Sam’s. A life in which we’d have to accept that his music would always come first. Just like the farm had always come first for Jack.

And I didn’t want that for us. Sam deserved to come first, and so, I realised, did I.

‘Go to London, do your thing,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Will boomed.