22. Dylan

Chapter 22

Dylan

Roommate Group Chat

Bret: Did you bring any of your jerseys with you?

Dylan : Yep.

Gage : Why did you bring one?

Bret : It’s his emotional support jersey.

Bret : Give Rosie one to wear.

Dylan : Really?

Bret : Trust me.

When Rosie opened her apartment door, I thrust my wadded-up jersey into her hands.

“What’s this?” She uncrumpled it and held it in front of her. The alien cat stalked behind her, eying me closely. I’d found it in my apartment again this morning, asleep against my bedroom door, curled up in a dirty shirt it must have dragged over from the bedroom. It definitely would have tried snuggling with me again if I hadn’t locked the door.

“My jersey,” I mumbled. “You should wear it today.”

I expected more push back from her, so I was surprised when she said, “Okay,” and she threw it over her head. It went halfway down her thighs, covering up her shorts and making it look like a dress on her. She brought up the neckline and sniffed it. “It smells like you.”

Oh no. I hadn’t even thought of that. “Give it back to me, and I’ll wash it.”

“No.” She clutched the neckline against her chest. “I like the smell of you.” She dropped my shirt like it burned her. “I mean …”

A slow smile spread across my face. “You do?”

She glared at me, but it didn’t have any actual anger to it.

“Should we go before we’re late?” Why was I saving her? I wanted to hear more about how good I smelled.

“This is ridiculous,” I complained, but I flexed my biceps as I held the paint brush awkwardly against the wall as she directed.

“Mmmhmm,” Rosie said distractedly as she snapped a few photos with her phone and then looked at them with a frown. I tried not to be offended.

“What?” I started to lower my arm, but her yelp of protest had me freezing in place. The muscles in my arm were starting to burn. I was accustomed to a variety of different workouts, but holding a paintbrush at a photo-friendly angle while twisting my body toward Rosie while flexing and “smiling as if I might be their friend” and “not squinting like I’m a movie cop from the nineteen-eighties” was an entirely different type of exercise.

“The sun is being weird.” She held up her phone again.

“Pretty sure the sun is constant.”

“Do you want to look like a red lollipop with caverns for eyes?” She moved to the right and took a few more pictures, directing me to “harden my jaw” while still looking approachable and friendly, and to “look less shadowed.”

But she was so dang cute, it was impossible to be irritated with her. The way my jersey skimmed the tops of her thighs as she stood on her tiptoes to find the right angle. The way she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating, then her dimple deepened as she asked me to do impossible things made me want to attempt the impossible thing. Like using my thumb to tug that bottom lip away from her teeth and replacing it with my lips.

I let out a long, slow breath. Not that impossible thing, Dyl.

“Don’t move. That’s perfect!”

I stood for a million more pictures where I didn’t move a single inch. “Don’t you have a game this afternoon?” I asked.

She grumbled a yes, slipped the jersey off (to my dismay), stuck it and her phone in her backpack, and grabbed a roller. Her Icy Asps softball T-shirt was a faded orange and pilled from lots of washes. It was also splattered with every color of paint imaginable.

We’d been at the library for nearly an hour, and not much painting had gotten done.

“I thought you liked painting.”

She looked pointedly at the white paint on our rollers and gave me a get real look that made me laugh.

“You don’t laugh enough,” she said. “I like when you do.”

I hadn’t had much to laugh about in a long time, but lightness spread through me. Being in Winterhaven was everything I hated and dreaded.

It was also everything I loved and longed for. Or, at least it used to be.

An entire innocent childhood of running around with my best friend in paradise, neither of us having any clue what the future had in store for us.

She dragged a line of white paint down the wooden siding, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away. This effect Rosie had on me—it was almost magic.

“So, a broken chair incident, huh?”

She leveled me with a I know what you’re trying to do glare. “Your dad has an exceptional talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time when it comes to me.”

“Like dancing the Wobble to save some otters?”

She gasped and whirled toward me, paint splattering on me as she did. I grinned without remorse. “Who told you?”

“My dad.”

“What about HIPPA? My fifth-amendment rights? Pinkie promise code?” With every question, more paint splattered onto the plastic we’d laid down before starting. At this rate, we were going to look like we had a white-spot disease.

“You made my dad pinkie promise?” I snorted, imagining my dad’s huge, work-worn pinkie engulfing her dainty one.

“No, but I should have,” she mumbled.

As she furiously painted the wall in a haphazard way, she grumbled something I couldn’t hear, but might have been a string of swear words, followed by, “Anyone could have mistaken that broken chair for a toilet, even Mr. High and Mighty Sheriff Savage.”

“Wait. What?”

The intense painting paused. “He didn’t tell you that part?”

“Nope.” Did I sound way too happy as I popped that p? Well, that was subjective. I think I was the exact right amount of happy for this information.

She huffed out a breath and kept painting.

“You can’t leave me hanging,” I informed her. I folded my arms and leaned against an unpainted portion of the wall. She got closer and closer to my shoulder with the roller in a game of chicken. But I never lost.

Maybe Rosie never lost either, because the wet roller grazed my arm, and she lifted her eyebrows in response.

“Where was the chair, Rosie?” I leaned into the roller like bring it on.

We’d taken a million social media pictures. I didn’t have to look presentable anymore.

Her nostrils flared, and she pushed the roller over my shoulder and up toward my chin like a thief with a knife to my neck. I stared her down, daring her to do it.

“In front of Lily and Charlie’s yard. It was white, and the cushioned seat portion was missing. In my … state, I thought it was a toilet.”

I had to bend over, I was laughing too hard. The roller hit my neck on the way down, and I was officially painted on my left side. I didn’t care. It was worth it.

“Lily’d put the chair out on the curb for the trash.”

“What were you doing when my dad found you?”

“Exactly what you’re picturing I was doing,” she said through her teeth, but I could hear the laughter she was holding back. “I’d had a lot to drink, okay? I didn’t realize my lemonade was spiked until my pants were around my ankles and your dad’s flashlight was burning a hole in my retinas. That’s not an innuendo.”

Tears. When was the last time I’d teared up from laughing? She mussed my hair with her paint-spattered hand, and I stood up fully, knowing I must look a mess.

“Don’t move,” she said. She tossed the paint roller down and took her phone out to capture a picture of me.

“Get over here,” I said, dragging her under my arm. I rubbed my neck on her head, leaving a streak of paint that went from her forehead into her hair. She squealed but didn’t move an inch as she snapped some pictures of us. As I breathed in her fresh paint and coconut scent, my nose brushed her soft neck. She stilled, and her breathing sounded ragged. Or maybe it was my imagination. Because while I contemplated what her neck might feel like pressed beneath my lips, she rolled her eyes and pushed away from me.

Her attention remained fixed on her phone as she said, “I’m glad my tale of public urination is so entertaining for you.”

“It’s really more that my dad caught you in the act of public urination—”

“Stop,” she groaned, placing her hand over my mouth. “I can’t think about that part or else I’ll have to move and never see your dad again. And I happen to like him, despite everything.” She had a wistful expression as she said, “He was almost my father-in-law, once removed.”

“Your what once removed?”

“My father-in-law. Since Lily and my brother Bennett almost got married.”

“Ah, right.” Charlie had told me this, but for some reason it hadn’t clicked until now. Rosie could have been my sister-once removed, by this logic. I shuddered. Thank you, Lily. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to get back with Bennett just to spite me. “Why’d they break up?”

“I don’t know. Your sister called it off without an explanation. Bennett’s still heartbroken—but if you tell Lily that, just remember, I know where you sleep.” Though her words were threatening, she said it with very little venom in her voice. It was clear she loved her brother—no, brothers . And they were protective brothers, from the sound of it.

It was important to remember that. And to remember that this was all fake. And to not wonder how soft her neck would feel against my lips.

Rosie suddenly went very still. Great. My thoughts must have been broadcast across my face. Her gaze flew over my shoulder, and she tucked her hair behind her ear and painted with her body at a weird angle, as if conscious of her every limb. I turned around and saw the reason.

Or more accurately, the problem.

Max.

He hadn’t seemed to notice us yet as he walked down the street, staring at his phone. Punching him in the face might get his attention. It was worth a try.

“Stop glaring,” Rosie hissed. “Oh my gosh, he’s looking at us.” She whipped her head away and painted the wall as if her life depended on it.

“Why are you acting weird?” I murmured.

“This is how I act. This is normal.”

I raised my brows.

“I forget what normal is around him.” She leaned too close to the wall and her hair swung into the wet paint, leaving it with white tips that then brushed her collarbone and neck, creating more white streaks. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Clearly,” I said dryly. On impulse, I ran my finger across the wet paint at her collarbone. Her eyes widened as I then drew my finger down the bridge of her nose, leaving behind a streak of white.

She gasped and turned more fully toward me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Max pause and take us in.

Amusement danced in Rosie’s eyes as she snapped her wrist, paint from her roller splattering across my shirt, face, and beard.

“Oops,” she said with a devilish grin that was anything but remorseful.

I stepped toward her slowly, and then quick enough she couldn’t get away, I brought my face to her neck to wipe the paint off onto her.

She shrieked in laughter and pushed me away, flinging more paint onto me in the process. I came toward her with a playful growl, and she held her roller out like a weapon.

“Don’t come any closer,” she said with breathy laugh. “I know how to use this, Dylan.”

“I thought I already established that I’m not afraid of a little paint.” I took another playful step toward her, dragging my fingers along the freshly painted wall as I did. Her eyes widened, along with her stance.

“You wouldn’t.”

I lunged for her with my wet fingers, but she ducked under my reach. I didn’t even realize that she’d swiped the paint brush from the bucket until she raced around me, and I felt a cold glob of wet hit the back of my head and run down my back.

I turned to find Rosie, a brush in one hand, her roller in the other, both held out like swords. A devious smile stretched across her beautiful face.

“You’re fighting dirty.”

“I have three older brothers. It’s the only way I know how to fight.”

I barked out a laugh at that. My smiles always seemed to lower her guard for some reason. I used it to my advantage to race closer and grab her around the waist.

She squealed and flung the paint on me, but I walked her backward until her back was pressed flush against the wet wall. I stepped in close to her, our breaths mingling as she laughed and tipped her head back into the paint to stare up at me with a gorgeous smile.

I nearly staggered backward at the feeling that pummeled me. More than want. More than desire. I could deal with those feelings.

This was something different. Something I couldn’t deal with. Not right now, and maybe not ever.

Her breathing changed, and the energy around us was charged with sudden expectation. My grip tightened on her hips, and my fingers grazed the tiny slice of skin at her waist. Her breath caught, and her hand clutched my shirt at my chest, the paint brushes dropped at some point.

She bit her lip, and I nearly groaned. Maybe I did groan, because her eyes widened and then fluttered shut as her head tilted up. An invitation? If so, I wasn’t going to say no.

“Hey! That paint isn’t free.”

I pulled back slowly, any elation I’d been feeling replaced by dread, and turned to see my dad standing three feet behind us, Max at his side, both of them competing for most disappointed expression.

Rosie squeaked. She was covered in white, nearly from head to toe, and I figured I didn’t fare much better.

“Dylan.” Dad motioned for me to step closer to him, and his tone brooked no room for argument. The anger wasn’t what raised my hackles, though. It was the disappointment. Always with the disappointment. It sometimes felt impossible to make my dad happy.

“I don’t need you coming here and being a bad influence.”

“I’m the one who started it,” Rosie said, coming close to my side. I expected she’d take this moment to talk to Max, who was still staring at us like he was trying to figure something out.

Dad looked at her sourly. “Don’t cover for him.”

“I’m not,” she said indignantly. “Is it really so hard to believe I’d start a paint fight?” She stepped close enough for her arm to be pressed into mine, the stickiness of the paint brushing against my skin.

“You can’t afford another ticket.”

“How would this earn her a ticket?” I asked, coming in too hot. Dad turned his thunderous expression to me.

“Wasting paint that was paid for by the town, which is essentially stealing.”

Rosie stepped even closer to Dad, and I wanted to pull her back. Don’t get too close to the bear, or you’ll get bit.

“That’s fair,” she said. “But we didn’t waste all the paint. Just a tiny bit of it. And I can replace it.”

Dad softened as he turned to Rosie. He ran an exhausted hand down his face. “Why do you keep getting into trouble?”

I almost said something to defend her, but Rosie’s hand had sneaked into mine and she gave it a quick squeeze, which I took to mean that I should keep my mouth shut. Dad didn’t seem to notice the hand holding, but Max’s gaze had shot right to where her palm pressed stickily into mine, an unreadable expression on his face.

It would be so like Max to suddenly show an interest in Rosie just because I had. I steeled my jaw and held Rosie’s hand tighter.

That was the whole point of this deal we had, and I had to remember that. I loosened my grip, but Rosie didn’t.

“I’m too smart for my own good,” she said with a sigh. “Besides, how else would I see you now that we don’t do Sunday dinners anymore?”

To my shock, Dad let out an abrupt laugh. Once he was angry, it usually took him hours to cool down, but I just saw him melt like soft serve in the sun for Miss Rosie Forrester. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes.

“There are more legal ways to see us,” he said. “Sunday dinner is an open invitation.”

“I don’t want to make Lily uncomfortable.”

They were both silent for a beat, as if acknowledging that Rosie’s presence did indeed do that.

Dad sighed as he took in the mess. “I’m going to have to fine you for this,” he said almost regretfully.

Did Rosie realize she was leaning against me as if all the air had gone out of her?

“Dad,” I said. “It’s my fault. Fine me.”

Dad turned to me as if remembering once again that I was there.

“No,” Rosie said. “You can’t have anything legal on your record while you’re trying to get back on the team.”

“Something like this isn’t a big deal.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” she argued. “Give me the fine,” she said firmly to Dad. “I can come by the station tomorrow after the cruise ship leaves.”

There was no way I was letting her take the fine. I stared at my dad, certain there was an agreement between us, and some of my tension unspooled.

Rosie, who seemed to believe she’d also come to her own agreement with Dad, nodded firmly. “Can you mention to Mrs. Savage that I’ll be coming by the station?” she asked sweetly.

Dad chuckled. “If you’re getting into trouble on purpose to get her homemade cookies—”

“You know they’re worth it,” she said.

I thought I’d reached my shock threshold, but it was breached once again when Rosie stepped forward and gave Dad a quick hug on the side of her with the least amount of paint. Dad was not a hugger. Not an “I love you-er.” Not a feelings guy at all—unless that feeling was disappointment or anger.

Dad patted her on the top of the head, the only place she didn’t have paint, his discomfort clear, but he didn’t push her away. Even with the paint.

He stepped back, but before he turned to leave, he pointed at me. “Don’t bring her down,” he said gruffly. Then he walked to his car, while I attempted to not let his words get to me. I was the villain in this situation—Gaston and Wickham—no matter how much Rosie tried to rebrand them. The one who was out of control. It made sense that he assumed I’d be the one to bring Rosie down.

But for once, couldn’t he believe the best of me? Was that even possible at this point?

“Hey, Max,” Rosie said, reminding me that we still had an interloper. I turned my back on him to continue painting the wall, wishing I’d brought my ear buds.

“Maximus,” I said, shortly. Rosie shot me a peeved look. Max ignored me completely.

“This guy bothering you?” he asked. I snorted and almost wanted Rosie to say yes. What did Max think he could do about it if I was bothering her?

“No, of course not. You know Dylan, right?” She swallowed, then said, “My boyfriend.”

Hearing her say it sent a zing through me, though I didn’t show it. I continued to paint the wall as if it took my full attention.

“Yeah, I know him.” And wished he didn’t, based on his tone. Well, the feeling was mutual. “Have you started Shrubs of Fog yet?”

“I’ve started it, but I’m not that far in yet. I really want to savor it, you know?”

“Yes, absolutely. I’m blown away by how the narrator’s self-loathing signals his distaste for capitalism, and being in second person, it’s a projection onto ourselves.”

“He’s stuck in the cog of a machine he created. I didn’t feel bad for him,” I said.

Rosie and Max whipped toward me. “You’ve read Shrubs of Fog ?” Rosie asked. Her eyes lit up the way they sometimes did when she had a plan. Hopefully this plan wouldn’t involve any propositions.

Actually, hopefully they did.

I turned back to painting the wall. My brain was all over the place. “Yes. My teammate, Bret, is friends with the author, so we all read it when it came out. I hated it, for the record.”

“You are full of surprises, Dylan Savage,” Rosie said, shaking her head with a smile.

“I’m surprised you found time to read it, between all the romance novels,” Max said with some asperity.

“You follow me on social media?” I asked.

“No, but I’ve had at least ten people ask me to order that book into the store.”

“Oh. You’re welcome.”

“No, that’s not what I—”

“Not a fan of romance novels, I take it?”

Max let out a huff. “If I want to read something formulaic, I’ll read a recipe. At least those are short and sweet.”

“Ahh. So you’re a book snob.”

“I’m a discerning reader.”

Rosie’s hand tightened on my arm before I could retort. Oh, right. I wasn’t here to get under his skin this way.

Except, he didn’t deserve her. Why couldn’t she see that?

I ignored them as Max continued to talk to Rosie, hardly letting her get in two words in their conversation, unless it was to ask him questions about himself.

Did he ask about her? Not even once.

She floated back to my side after he left and picked up her roller once again. I attacked the wall with a vengeance, ready to be done, all the fun completely drained from me.

“That move against the wall?” she said, dreamily. “That was brilliant.”

I paused. “Brilliant?”

“Yes!” She turned her bright smile on me. “Max was watching the entire time. You are a mastermind.”

Right. A mastermind. I’d been so lost in Rosie, I’d completely forgotten he was there. Something like that had never happened to me before. I made goals. I focused on them, to the expense of everything else. I couldn’t let Rosie distract me.

I gave her a confident grin. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Had I ever told a greater lie?