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10
We walkalong the beach back to the house, and I'm pretty sure the fizzing inside is from holding this guy's hand and not the Coke I drank. Dylan dressed me in his jacket and I surreptitiously burrow my nose into the soft material, inhaling 'scent of Dylan’. Absentmindedly, I wonder if the famous guy has his own brand of fragrance. Then I giggle.
"You okay?" he asks, pushing the cottage door open and flicking on the lights.
"Everything is great," I say staring at his mouth, wishing it were back on mine.
But something's odd. Dylan looks too intense, and not in a sexual way—as if he's considering his actions and is unsure about the kiss now we're back in the light and he can see me clearly.
"What about you?" I ask cautiously.
"All good."
I don't believe him, but rather than stand and stare at each other awkwardly, I head for the kitchen. Coffee? I don't think so. I pull out my last bottle of red.
"Do you want a wine?" I call.
"You know I'm dry."
I turn to Dylan who’s resting on the edge of the doorframe, one hand above his head holding the top of the frame. This exposes his lean stomach and the 'v' shape that Grant definitely never had disappearing into his jeans. Why did Dylan have to stand like that and set my mind wandering downwards too?
"Okay." I pour myself a generous glass of wine and his eyes zone in on my mouth as I sip.
"Is this where we get awkward?" I ask him.
Dylan’s phone rings, the sound faint from the room above us. "Awkward about what?" He glances towards the stairs.
Like he doesn't know. "You kissed me."
"And you kissed me," he replies with a small smile.
"And...?"
"And...?"
I narrow my eyes. He's playing games again. Was the kiss a game to Dylan? "Nothing."
The ringing stops but starts again seconds later. "I’ll be right back. I’m waiting for a call about...something." Dylan heads in the direction of the incessant ringing.
I thought he was hiding? Why answer the phone?
I sit at the table, body still wired from our kiss, and struggle with what to do if Dylan wants to take things further. Such as to bed. Or against the wall. Or wherever—my imagination can conjure plenty.
Perhaps the walk along the beach and phone call defused a situation heading towards explosive that would end our relaxed time together.
Dylan’s murmured conversation upstairs grows louder, and I sit on the bottom stair and listen.
"I don't give a flying fuck what he wants." Dylan sounds different. Not just the swearing, but his accent is almost completely American.
Long pause.
"Yeah, well, tell him to go fuck himself. I'm not doing what he says. I'll do what I fucking like with my life."
The vehemence in his tone shocks me. Even when our cars collided, and I was rude, Dylan didn't show this kind of anger.
"I don't think so," he continues, "and don't think about trying to find me or I'll fucking leave for good." I shift, ready to move in case he ends the call. "Fuck the contracts. Sue me. I don't fucking care anymore."
That's a lot of fucks.He's definitely a different Dylan to the one who I ate fish and chips with. I retreat to the lounge with my glass of wine and retrieve my book from earlier.
