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CHAPTER 11
Dylan
“You’re British, and you don’t drink tea?” Kylie asked in a curious voice while I brewed myself a cup of coffee the next morning as she sat at the kitchen table.
I’d been damn disappointed when I’d woken up alone this morning, but once I’d glanced at the clock, I’d known why.
Kylie was an early riser, and I’d slept way later than I usually did. I’d been surprised that after I’d kept her awake last night after my nightmare, she’d still rose early for yoga and meditation.
I shot her an amused look. “Bite your tongue, woman. It’s almost impossible to be British and not drink tea. We Brits believe a good cup of tea solves almost any problem. I think we assume it has some kind of magical properties.”
She smiled, and something inside my chest twisted when she did.
I’d been a little afraid that after spilling my guts the night before, that Kylie might look at me differently.
She didn’t.
Her smile was exactly the same as it had been the day before, and those full, plump lips were still begging me to kiss her.
Well, they were in my mind, anyway.
“But I’ve only seen you drink coffee,” she observed.
I shrugged. “I’m not a tea maximalist. I like coffee, too, and there isn’t a decent brew in the house right now.”
“Why didn’t you say something,” she scolded. “I could have picked some up from the grocery store while I was shopping.”
“I’m not overly fond of grocery store tea in America,” I replied as I picked up my coffee and wandered over to the table.
“So you’re a tea snob, just like Damian,” she said teasingly.
“No one is pickier about their tea than Damian,” I informed her. “I’m perfectly happy with any decent quality black tea that doesn’t taste like piss water. Can I ask what in the world you’re doing?”
I leaned against the island and watched as she tied off strips of material dangling from a larger piece spread out on the table.
She paused and looked up at me. “I’m just putting together some no-sew comfort blankets for the dogs and cats at the animal shelter. My friend, Macy, is a veterinarian, and she volunteers there. Jake had one that somebody else made when I brought him home after adopting him, and it really seemed to lessen his anxiety. Since the shelter never seems to get enough, I try to make some of them every month to donate. I don’t sew, but these are easy enough for me to handle.”
I watched her as she went back to work, deftly tying off knots as she explained how the entire blanket was basically just two pieces of back-to-back fleece, bound together by artful cuts and tied strips of material.
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to buy them?” I asked.
“These are special,” she answered. “The big fringes make it a combination of a toy, and a blanket, too. Jake never took to any other blanket the way he did this one. He carried it everywhere for a while.”
I looked at the hound that was spread out on the tile, his snout close to Kylie’s foot.
Obviously, that canine and I had one thing in common: we both liked to be close enough to Kylie to drink in her alluring scent.
“I can help,” I offered. “It looks easy enough.”
It was Saturday morning. I didn’t want Kylie to spend her entire day making blankets, even if it was for a good cause.
It was highly possible that my motives were a little bit selfish, too. If I helped, I’d be able to stay in the kitchen without looking like I was stalking her.
“You’d really sit here and do that?” she asked with a surprised expression.
I shrugged. “Why not?”
“Because you’re Dylan Lancaster. No offense intended at all, but I doubt most billionaire moguls make dog blankets.”
