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We're at least ten miles from the town, and further to the beach house.
"They'll recognise me. Tell someone."
"I don't think everyone in Britain is looking for you, Dylan. Don't be ridiculous!"
"Wait." He pulls his phone from his pocket and stares at it. Putting the phone on the dashboard, he taps his cheeks with his fingers, retreating into his thoughts. I cross my arms and watch him as his eyes glaze.
"What are you doing? Trying to fix the car with Zen?"
"I should've fucking stayed at the house," he mutters.
"This isn't exactly my idea of a great end to a day out either," I retort.
The happy glow from our date dissipates as the stress-head Dylan reappears.
"Fuck this!" He climbs out of the car and sits on the bonnet, long legs stretched out in front of him.
As he talks to someone on the phone, a young mother with a trolley containing a toddler and what looks like half the shop wheels past him. Her eyes grow to saucers as she looks at Dylan. For a moment, I think she’ll stop and I flick my gaze between her and Dylan. She pauses, mouth opening.Shit.
I spring out of the door and grab Dylan’s arm. He looks around in alarm.
"Get in the car!"
"What?"
"Jamie! Get in the car—the kids are waiting for us to pick them up!"
Dylan's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I don't have time to hang around in the middle of a supermarket car park." I emphasise the part about the car park and tug his hand.
The supermarket car park isn’t Dylan’s natural environment, and I’m pretty sure any fan of his would still recognise him, even without his hair, but he doesn't move.
"I'm talking to someone about moving the car."
Is this guy insane? I move closer and wind my arms around his neck, tiptoeing and holding my face close to his ear. "I think someone recognised you."
Dylan's hands roam around to my backside, pulling my hips into his. He slides his face towards my ear. "Who?"
I hunch my shoulders as his cool breath tickles. "Some woman with a trolley."
Sliding hands up my back, he pulls his head away and holds my face, then crushes his mouth on mine. Annoyed he’s switched from swearing at me to presuming I want to kiss him, I nip his bottom lip. He nips mine in return and loosens his grip, laughing. Wobbling slightly, I steady myself on the car, touching my mouth. I swear I'm about to fall on the floor in a dizzy heap.
"Has she gone?" he whispers.
What? My addled brain tries to catch up. "Who?"
"The person who saw me."
"Probably, why?"
"Good. I thought that might throw her off the scent."
"Dylan Morgan kissing a woman is more inconspicuous than a man hanging out in a supermarket car park?"
Dylan lightly touches my face, and small zaps of electricity seem to flow from his fingers. "Don't take this the wrong way..."
Oh, right. As soon as people say something like that, you know you will. I tense. "What?"
