“I like the physical labor.” He needed a change of subject. He had too much to do to get mired down in memories this evening. “I’ve got to clean up and get out of here. Bethany’s waiting.” Bethany Weaver was one of the kids he spent time with at the Ronald McDonald House, where he’d volunteered since college. She had Hodgkin’s lymphoma and was about halfway through her treatments.
Brett’s expression softened. “How’s she doing?”
“Good. She’s got another few treatments, but she’s a pistol.” Dylan had never been able to mask his awe over the courage of the children he visited, and he heard it in his own voice now. “Remember I told you she was crazy about Anika Bouchert, the professional snowboarder?”
“Yeah. Have you been able to reach her?”
“Not yet. Mick reached out, but he hadn’t heard back before his honeymoon. Hopefully Sophie will hear back while he’s gone and we’ll be able to connect.” Sophie was Mick’s assistant, and one of the women Brett was constantly trying to hook up with.
Brett got a hungry look in his eyes, and Dylan waved his finger at him. “Back off. She doesn’t need you bugging her. Anyway, I found an autographed picture of Anika on eBay and had it framed for Bethany. I think she’ll like it.”
“That’s great. I’m glad she’s doing well. Are we still on for planning the fundraiser after your kitchen is done?”
Dylan had hosted an annual fundraiser to benefit the Ronald McDonald House for the past ten years. Although Dylan’s brothers found it too painful to talk about Lorelei, they all helped plan the event. The first few years he’d held it at NightCaps, the bar Dylan owned, but the event had grown too big for the space. This year they were holding it at the Ultimate, a hotel owned by their friend Phoebe Nice.
“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. I should have the new cabinet fronts in place next weekend. Then we can begin planning.”
Brett glanced around the kitchen. They’d done less renovating this year, only removing the cabinet faces, the dishwasher, and sink. The space still resembled a construction site with tarps, old cabinet faces, and tools strewn across their work area. “Want me to run a few loads down to the trash area before I take off?”
“Nah. I’ve got it. Thanks. Poker Thursday night?” He and his brothers, along with a couple of their buddies they’d grown up with, the Wilds, got together every so often to play poker. This week Dylan was hosting.
“You know it.” Brett eyed the mess again. “You sure you don’t want me to get that?”
“Nope. I’ll get it. Bring lots of cash for the game. I’m feeling lucky.”
After his brother left and he cleaned up, his mind traveled back to last night and the all-too-brief—and scorching-hot—cab ride he’d shared with Tiffany. Dylan had always been lucky in cards and with women, but he wasn’t about to leave seeing Tiffany again up to luck.
IF TIFFANY NEVER stepped foot in another hospital she would be a happy woman. Between her clients landing in them with on-field injuries, jeopardizing contracts and causing media uproars, and her father’s recent diagnosis, she’d spent far too much time within the confines of the sterile buildings.
As her father’s eyes fluttered open, she zipped off the email she’d been typing and rose from the chair beside his bed, where she’d been for most of Sunday afternoon and evening. Every day was a blur of meetings, schmoozing, and negotiating. Luckily, she’d had in-person meetings for only half the day, and she’d been able to handle the rest of her business via her phone and laptop.
“Daddy?” She touched his hand, which was warm and felt oddly frail. What was it about the stark walls, white sheets, and generic hospital gowns that seemed to diminish even the most formidable men? Her father was a large man at six four, and if she had to guess, he was a solid two hundred and eighty pounds. After working with professional athletes for so long, she was fairly certain her guess was accurate, but it was hard to tell, as athletes were all muscle, and her father was not. He didn’t take the best care of himself, and seeing him lying there, weakened and pale, made her heart ache.
“Hiya, kiddo.” His lips curved up, and he blinked several times. They’d medicated him to keep the pain from the kidney stones at bay, and he’d gone in and out of sleep for most of her visit. He turned his hand over and curled his fingers around hers. “How’s my girl?”
She was so used to his booming voice she had to work hard at masking the ache of reality. Her father was aging, and no matter how much she tried to ignore it, it was happening right before her eyes. She was glad she’d moved back to New York. She’d been in Los Angeles since college, and had been so busy building her agency even visits home were spent primarily working. Moving to New York meant a few weeks of working from home while she found an office, but at least she was closer to her father. Hopefully she could squeeze in visits more often.
“I’m great, Dad, but how are you feeling? Can I get you anything?”
“I’ll take a new body. Younger, stronger. Think you can do that?” He squeezed her hand.
“I wish I could do that for you.” She leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Rocco was here all day. Perry called to check on you twice. He sends his love and said he’d fly in tomorrow.” Perry played for the New York Jets and was traveling with his team.
Her father waved a hand. “No need for him to mess with his schedule. I’ll be out of here as soon as I pass these stones. I’m fine, kiddo. You get on that vibrating phone of yours and tell him to stick with his team.” Gunner was retired now, but he was determined not to be seen as a retiree who needed taking care of. He still pushed his three children to be the best they could and take care of themselves and their work first.
The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. She glanced down at the phone vibrating in her hand. It was such a constant in her life she didn’t even realize she was holding it most of the time. She’d become adept at doing everything with a phone in her hand, from making coffee, to getting dressed, and even going to the bathroom. And she chalked up a nice chunk of her success to her constant availability.
“I’ll text him,” she reassured him.
“Do it now, kiddo, before you get another call and forget.” He nodded toward her phone.
“Fine.” She rolled her eyes, but a smile spread across her face. She’d learned how to be successful from the most ruthless mentor of all. After her father’s injury, he’d gone on to coach college football, taught a quarterback clinic, and remained in the thick of the industry, often being asked to work directly with players one-on-one. Until he retired, he’d worked closely with scouts, team managers, and players seven days a week, pounding into Tiffany’s head the importance of being not only available, but head and shoulders above the competition. He had taught Tiffany much of what she knew about negotiations and how to deal with industry professionals before she ever left for college. He’d also introduced her to just about everyone under the sports-industry sun, which made her transition into sports management a natural one.
“And what’s with the flowers?” her father asked with a sour look on his face. “Don’t waste your money on flowers. They’ll just die.”
No kidding. As she texted her brother, she glanced at the beautiful arrangement Dylan had left at her apartment early that morning. It was a sweet sentiment, she supposed. At least that’s what most women would think. But like her father, she didn’t see the sense in sending flowers. And it didn’t stop there. She found most things guys did were shallow or a means to an end, which were just two of the many reasons she didn’t put a lot of stock in relationships. Maybe that was because her mother had left their family when she was seven without so much as a goodbye. Or maybe it was because she’d found her ex-boyfriend and bestie in bed together right before college graduation. She knew both of those things had steered her away from forging meaningful relationships, and until last night, hookups were all she’d ever had—or wanted. But she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Dylan’s kisses, his cocky smile, and witty banter.
Or, more troubling, how nice it felt to be in his arms during his surprising—and comforting—embrace.
“Kiddo? You okay?” Her father looked at her with a puzzled expression and she realized she was still staring at the flowers.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She zipped off the text to Perry. “The flowers? I got them from a client and thought the nurses would enjoy them.” A client. Surely she’d be struck by lightning for lying to her father.
“One of these days you’ll land a client who will know what it takes to win over the heart of a Winters.”
In her head she heard Dylan’s voice. From now on, you’re my Summers. The only people who had ever given her nicknames were her father and brothers. She liked that about Dylan, too. She should at least thank him for the flowers. And maybe a rain check isn’t such a bad idea after all. One night of stress relief. God knew she was under enough stress on a daily basis to earn more than a battery-driven orgasm—and last night’s had been sheer perfection. Despite the fact that the cabdriver probably got off thinking about us later.
Oh God…
“You’re not yourself today, Tiffany,” her father said as her phone lit up with another email. “Are you working too hard?”
“No, Dad. I’m fine.” Just thinking about going home and banging on apartment 801—or rather, banging the guy in apartment 801.
Chapter Four
FINDING OUT BETHANY had been admitted to the hospital had gutted Dylan. After their brief visit, he found himself in the dark place he often did after receiving bad news about the kids he’d come to know through the Ronald McDonald House. He was used to this downhill slide, when his mind spiraled back to the last days with Lorelei. He’d relived it so many times now, he’d gotten pretty good at pulling his head back into a better place. The elevator ride was slow. It seemed everyone and their brother was leaving the hospital at the same time. At least it gave him time to clear his thoughts. A little fresh air and a few happier sights would help, but damn, he hated this.
The elevator doors opened and Dylan’s night got a whole lot brighter. Tiffany stood with her phone pressed to her ear, wearing a pair of skinny jeans with spike-heeled boots, a transparent blouse over a clingy spaghetti-strap top, and a look of shock on her gorgeous face.
He chuckled and shook his head. Always on that damn phone. “Get on in here, Summers. You’re holding up the elevator.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Yes, thank you.” She ended the call and stepped into the crowded elevator with a perplexed look in her eyes and an enormous leather bag over her shoulder.
Dylan purposefully stepped behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and drew her back against his chest, ignoring her efforts to wiggle free. “How’s your father?” He spoke in a low voice into her ear, loving the full-body shudder it incited.
“Fine,” she said coldly. Turning her face toward him she whispered, “What are you doing here? Stalking me? Did Rocco tell you where I was?”
Ignoring her heated interrogation, and needing to focus on something positive, he said, “Right now you remind me of autumn, do you know that?” While her lips pressed into a tight line, he said, “I was visiting a little girl who’s going through chemo.”
A sad sound escaped her lungs. “I’m sorry. I…”
“You couldn’t have known,” he reassured her. “Is your father really okay? Are you okay?”
“I should be asking you that.” She turned in his arms as the elevator stopped, and two couples got on, forcing them closer together. Her hair was pinned up in a bun, secured with what looked like a pen. Several golden tendrils had sprung free, giving her a far more innocent appearance than her attitude conveyed. God she was beautiful, even when she was annoyed. Maybe even more so when she was annoyed, because it brought out the yellow flecks in her eyes and darkened the chocolate hues around the edges. And hell if she didn’t smell like the ocean on a warm summer’s night.
“I’m doing fine.” He lowered his hands to the base of her spine. “Even better now.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t move away. “What happened to the little girl? Is she a friend of yours? The daughter of a friend?”
The elevator stopped again and another person stepped on. There was no need for it, but Dylan pulled her tighter against him, and she looked at him with a smirk that told him how ridiculous she thought he was. Ridiculous or not, he’d found the perfect remedy for finding his happy place, and it came in a five-seven or -eight curvy package of attitude and arousal. The fact that Tiffany needed him about as much as a camel needed water wasn’t lost on him. But he wasn’t about to try to analyze that right now.
“Bethany’s nine,” he explained. “I met her through the volunteer program at the Ronald McDonald House. She has Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and had a setback tonight.” As he told her what Bethany had been through, and how he’d become close with her family, Tiffany’s hands—one of which held her trusty phone—curled around his arms. In the space of a breath he saw a softer side of her come out from under her steely exterior. The tension in her body eased, her eyes filled with empathy, and the fortitude that she wore like a badge of honor seemed to slip away, leaving an unguarded, compassionate woman whose buzzing phone had suddenly been forgotten.
“That poor little girl,” she said as the elevator stopped at the lobby and the doors opened. The elevator cleared out, bringing cooler air into the confined space, but neither one released their hold and the temperature spiked. Tiffany’s eyes darkened. The flush of desire rose on her cheeks, making her look even more feminine.
Dylan couldn’t stop his thoughts from tumbling out. “You are so beautiful right now. So completely unguarded and real.” He lifted his hand to her cheek and her mouth opened, as if she was going to say something, but no sound came.
She dropped her gaze to her hands on his arms, one of which still held her now-silent phone. Her expression changed to one of confusion, as if she had no idea how her hands had ended up there.
She took a step back, out of the elevator, her hands drifting to her sides. “We should probably get a cab.” Absently running a hand down her jeans, she wiped away some invisible offending dust.
Vulnerability dust.
“Here, let me get that,” he said, stepping off the elevator beside her.
He was enjoying unguarded Tiffany, and he wanted that side of her to remain exposed for a little while longer. Moving closer, he ran his hands down her hips, then up again, coming to rest on her waist. Her breathing quickened. The air between them pulsed with heat. Her gaze sharpened as fast as a summer storm. Her shoulders squared, and her pretty little chin with the dimple in the center lifted ever so slightly. But even with all that control, she couldn’t subdue the slight tremble he felt beneath his hands.
“Do you mind?” she said with slightly less annoyance than she’d shown him earlier.
“Do you?” He gathered her in his arms. All around them people milled about, moving in and out of the elevators, down the corridors, toward the front doors, but Dylan only saw the beautiful, interesting, complex woman in his arms.
She opened her mouth, then shut it again.
“Right now you’re not my summer girl,” he said without thinking. It was a bad habit of his. Some people made rude, unfiltered remarks. Dylan’s heart often slipped right out.
Her brows knitted ever so slightly.
“You’re my autumn. Changing right before my eyes.”
TIFFANY COULDN’T BREATHE. Dylan’s superpowers were at it again, and no matter how hard she tried to right her brain, his words made her stumble. No one made her stumble. Ever. But Dylan was frighteningly intense in the most unexpected ways. He smiled and it wasn’t just a kind, sexy smile. It carried a slight smirk. Enough of a smirk to kick her neurons into firing again. God, she was an idiot for almost falling for his pathetic line.
“Wow. I thought I’d heard all the pickup lines, but you’re good. Autumn? Who says things like that?”
He took her hand in his very large, ver
y strong one and kissed the back of it, lifting one shoulder in a modest shrug. “I guess I do. How about that cab?”
“Such a player,” she said as he led her out the doors and into the night. Why was she letting him hold her hand? “Do those lines work for you?”
“You tell me. It’s the first time I’ve ever used it.”
“Right.” She laughed. “No man is that smooth.”
He tugged her against him again so hard she caught herself on his chest. His exquisitely hard, broad chest. He smelled spicy and manly, as he had last night, clearing away a few more brain cells.
The muscles in his jaw jumped, and he spoke sternly. “I’m not smooth. Those words came honestly.”
A nervous scoff bubbled up before she could stop it, and she winced at the rude sound.
He released her as the cab arrived and opened the door, silently motioning for her to climb in.
She stepped in front of him, a million thoughts racing through her mind, most prominently that she needed to figure out how to get laid by this incredible creature and get him out of her head, so she could go back to concentrating and getting her work done.
“Thank you for the flowers,” she said quickly.
His lips curved up with amusement. “Oh, you received them after all?”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes, because he was incredibly nice and didn’t deserve her knee-jerk reactions. “Yes. Thank you. I’m just not a flower type of girl.”
“Makes me wonder what type of girl you are.”
The cabdriver cleared his throat.
“Are we sharing a cab?” he asked with more than a hint of sin simmering in his eyes.
Hell yes. Knowing better than to hand over control to the man who would run with it, she kept her interest close to her chest. “It makes sense,” she said coolly. “Since we’re both heading to the same place.”
Bad Boys After Dark: Dylan (Bad Billionaires After Dark Book 2) Page 3