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I nearly dropped my phone at the sound of his voice. Lifting my head from the screen, I looked around, his form not yet coming into view.
“Over here,” Dylan said gently, and I turned to my left as I tucked the phone away.
It took a lot to impress me when it came to appearances. Shirtless, musclebound men did little to thrill, and while I respected a man in uniform, the sight of one wasn't an instant need for a cold shower.
But the sight of Dylan Pierce in a dark button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and slacks to match, his hair brushed back into a low ponytail, was almost enough to render my knees useless.
He was already smiling when my eyes lifted to his. “You look nice,” he said before plucking at the sheer, billowy sleeve of my black top. “I like this. Very witchy.”
“You're into that? Witchy chic?” I quipped while I tried not to linger too long on the hoop hugging his bottom lip.
“I'm saying it suits you,” he complimented as he tucked his hands deep into his pockets.
“Now, you're calling me a witch on my birthday,” I said sardonically. “Real nice.”
“Well, you gotta be,” he replied, cocking his head and making no move to head inside.
“Oh, yeah? And why is that?” I asked while hiking my purse onto my shoulder.
“I've been under your spell since the moment I laid my eyes on you.”
Lines like that didn't belong in the mouths of beautiful men. They were cheesy and unbelievable. They were meant to be shooed away with a roll of the eyes and an unamused groan. But when uttered by a man who looked like Dylan Pierce, it became something I wanted to believe was true, and I could think of at least five reasons why that was a terrible, horrible thing.
At the top of the list was knowing that, with every word, every line, I was held firmly underhisspell.
And maybe that was the point—to never let me go.
Before anything else could be said, he offered his arm, I accepted, holding tight to his firm bicep, and together, we got up the stairs. He didn't trip, and thanks to his reminder with every upcoming step, I didn't fall flat on my face. We high-fived at the top, only half-joking as we laughed. Then, he held the door open, and we entered the restaurant to find my family.
I had almost forgotten I was supposed to dread anything. I had almost forgotten I was in the middle of texting him not to come when he showed up. But the looks on my friends’ and family's faces when we approached served as every reminder why I needed to keep my nerves from settling.
“Dylan,” Dad said, his voice tight and firm, as he extended his hand. “Nice to see you again.”
They shook as Mom blew out an annoyed breath before saying, “Glad you could make it.”
Connor's skeptical eyes volleyed between our parents and me before turning to Dylan. “So,you'rethe famous Dylan I've heard about, huh?”
Tarryn sidled up to me and jabbed my ribs with a pointy elbow. I took a quick glance at the smugI told you soexpression on her face before steering my attention toward Peter, standing off to the side with Cassie and Steven. From what I could tell, he wasn't particularly curious about what was happening. He knew I hadn't known Dylan for long, and he knew that Connor didn't come home often. The man was intelligent, and he must've put it together that my brother simply hadn't met the rock star I'd only recently become acquainted with. There was no reason to suspect he’d followed every underlying insinuation.
Releasing a deep breath to calm my rattled nerves, I moved through the group to stand beside my boyfriend. “Hey, do we have a table yet?”
He shook his head as he scowled toward the front of the restaurant. “No. They told us they’re waiting for a big group of people to leave, and that was about ten minutes ago—”
“Peter, party of nine?” the hostess called from the podium by the entrance.
“Oh, thank God,” he muttered before raising his hand and answering, “Yes, right here.”
“So sorry for the wait,” she said, coming toward us with a bundle of menus held tight to her chest. “If you'll all just follow me, I'll take you upstairs to your—”
“Uh”—I darted my eyes toward Dylan—”I don't think that's gonna work for us … right?”
The winding staircase was long and wide with many steps outlined in the same twinkle lights as the ones outside. If there had been only a few, I wouldn't have said anything, but I noted that Dylan hadn't brought his cane. I didn't want to assume what he was capable of, but I knew him. I knew the task would feel daunting, and I didn't want him to force himself into an uncomfortable situation for my sake. It was a reasonable accommodation, and it shouldn't be a problem to make it.
But then there was Peter, sighing irritably, while the hostess stood awkwardly, hugging the menus tighter.
“Um, I can see what I can do …”
“Lennon, it's fine,” Dylan muttered quietly, aiming his hardened gaze toward me.
