“Yeah and that too.” He taps the dashboards. “Where did you go yesterday?”
“Only as far as the next town - Sandchurch, wandered around the shops, ate scones…”
“We can go there?”
“I’m still not asking who you are, but do you think you’re safe to go there? You seem a bit paranoid about being spotted.”
Dylan runs his tongue along his teeth. “Was the town busy yesterday?”
“Not really - mostly a few older couples, and most of those were in the cafes.”
Dylan wriggles his nose like a kid. “What do you reckon? I’m bored of the beach now. Plus I want to explore some more of you.” He puts his hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I mean explore more with you - other places from the past.”
I ignore my body’s reaction to his teasing. “Okay…” I turn the key in the ignition. “But are you sure?”
“I brought this.” Dylan holds up a baseball cap. Grinning, he shoves it onto his head and pulls the peak down. “No hair and a hat, I’ll be harder to recognise.”
I point at his arm and say, “Tattoos?”
“Good point, I’ll get my hoodie.” His tall figure slips out of the car, emptying the space of the presence I don’t want to admit gives me goose bumps on my arms - and makes me wish he hadn’t stopped last night.
*****
We park the car beneath an oak tree, at the edge of the car park furthest from town. Dylan walks besides me, hunched downward with his cap pulled down. After a few steps, he slides his hand into mine, the gesture arresting me. He flashes me a smile and I roll my eyes at him.
“We’re on a date; I get to hold your hand.”
My chest tightens at his words. Date. With Dylan Morgan the Mysterious?
Dylan isn’t content with handholding. He slides his fingers along my arm, or hugs me close, breathes the scent of my hair, as if he needs to be in constant contact with me. As we enter the town, Dylan tenses, his hand gripping mine harder. Few people walk the paved streets, and fewer cars pass. Older couples weave in and out of the small shops, or sit on plastic chairs outside cafes in the quiet, narrow streets. As we continue, his shoulders relax, although his focus remains on the floor.
“What should we do?” he whispers.
I smirk at him. “I like shopping…”
Dylan wrinkles his nose. “Okay, then.” He follows me as I tug his hand and walk through the quite, cobbled streets.
Crammed in an antique shop, Dylan wraps his arms around my waist with his chin on my shoulder. The tiny shop has shelves running to the back of the building on each wall, and one running centrally. If there were more than three people in this shop at once, there’d be a fire risk. With Dylan, we take up the whole width of one side.
“What are you looking for?” he asks, as I flick through a cardboard box of paperback books, hoping to find a treasure amongst the dog-eared collection.
“Is that a philosophical question?” I ask.
He jabs a finger into the sensitive spot at the side of my waist. “Snarky… I only asked a question.”
The sensation of Dylan’s body against mine prevents my ability to exist in the real world. The weirdest thing is that this is completely natural. I can’t explain to myself how being in the presence of a man who I hardly know (but have been a little too intimate with) soothes me. His hips resting against mine; the way our bodies fit together - how is this more natural than Grant?
“I like odd things,” I reply.
“Odd things?”
I give up on the books and head further into the shop, Dylan still attached. “Yes. Why else would I like you?”
“I can think of a few reasons,” he says in a low tone.
I’m glad I’m facing away from him, because the annoying heat fills my face again and travels back down. Just a few words and he turns me on…
On the pine shelves in front is a bizarre assortment of items, like a crazy person’s mantelpiece. Jammed into every inch of space are colourful glass bottles, old teacups, badly painted pottery animals, spoons; hand drawn labels with prices on dangle off some items. I pick up a strangely misshapen vase, the orange glass not fused properly at the top.
“Shit, that’s ugly,” remarks Dylan.
I giggle. “I like it.”
“Seriously?”
Setting the vase back down, I head towards the back of the shop. Dylan releases his grip on my waist but instantly slides his hand into mine. I pull it away.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dylan. I can’t move for one thing. And I need both hands for inspecting ugly vases.”
Dylan pushes my hair to one side and kisses my neck. “I like touching you and being around you.”
The intense blue eyes meet mine, and I wait for a teasing comment about our antics last night and this morning. He doesn’t say anything, a relaxed happiness shines at me instead.
Pushing the arousing images from my mind, I nod. “I kind of like being around you.”
I get another poke in the waist as he says, “Gee, thanks. Kind of…”
I bite the corner of my lip and Dylan’s look drops to my mouth. Oh, God, please don’t try making out with me in an antique shop. The confined space holds the same charge between us as yesterday outside the bathroom. Some of the ‘what if?’ sexual tension from then has gone, replaced by ‘we could do that again and more’ tension that hovers between us with every brief kiss and touch today.
I inspect my hands, closing down my senses as much as possible, but when the man who did wickedly wonderful things to my body last night is so close that’s difficult. Dylan’s sandalwood scent and the warmth of his body, so close to mine, fog the world, and if I meet his eyes and see desire too I’ll have no choice. I’ll have to kiss him.
“Oh, hey, look at this! Did you ever have one of these?” Dylan reaches over my head, not helping my attempts to disengage my senses. “Look.”
In the palm of his hand, Dylan holds a figure made from seashells set on a small wooden plinth. ‘Made from’ is a loose definition; several shells are glued together and googly eyes attached to create a barely human-looking statue about fifteen centimetres tall.
“Oh, my god, that is awful,” I whisper, “What the hell is it?”
Dylan inspects the monstrosity. “I think it’s supposed to be a souvenir gift for a lucky friend or family member. Did you ever have one?”
“If I did, I think I’d remember.”
“I’ve got one at home somewhere.” He catches my confused expression. “I like odd things too.” I roll my eyes at him, and then he bends towards me, his mouth uncomfortably close to mine. “Although that’s not the only reason I like you, Sky.”
Sucking in a breath, I edge around him back to the front of the shop before I lose sight of the world. Dylan follows, slipping his hand back into mine, still carrying the godawful shell figure.
*****
The slatted wooden bench we sit on overlooks the rugged landscape below, the sea bluer beneath the summer sky. The fluffy, white clouds burn away as the day progresses, and we choose to sit beneath a tree for shade from the strong sun. Dylan unzips the blue hoodie, huffing at the heat.
“Maybe you should take the jacket off?” I suggest.
He shifts his baseball hat forward, pulling the peak lower. “I don’t know…”
“I think people will stare at you more for wearing a jacket on a hot summer’s day.”
“Maybe.” Dylan holds my hand, stroking my arm with his other hand. I’m unused to someone being so touchy-feely, and normally I’d be irritated after several hours of this but I crave to be in contact with him too.
An older couple passes by holding hands. They’re a similar age to my parents, although mine would never hold hands since they divorced a couple of years ago. The woman wears knee-length beige shorts and a loose brown T-shirt, greying hair is stylishly cut into a bob, her body touching the man as they walk in a natural, years’ old rhythm. The carrier bag he’s holding suggests they’ve been buyi
ng junk at souvenir shops, like Dylan’s shell monster.
“Most people here are that age,” I say, indicating the couple. “Not your audience, I suspect.”
Dylan watches them silently for a few moments. “I hope one day that’s me,” he says eventually.
“A balding man at the seaside carrying his wife’s bag?”
“Yeah, living in a house by the sea with my dribbling wife asleep on the sofa,” he says and laughs, placing his other hand over mine, trapping my fingers between his warm palm.
His words arrest me as I remember my night asleep on the sofa the day we met. Is there something behind them? I side glance at him and he’s staring at the ground, arms resting on his knees. “I’m sure you have the money to do what you want when you get old?”
“I have the money to do what I want now, but I can’t do what I want.”
“That’s an odd thing to say.”
He laughs softly. “I’m odd remember?”
I rest my head on Dylan’s shoulder and he wraps an arm around me. After a few minutes Dylan shifts. “Okay, you’re right, I’m too fucking hot.”
I chomp hard on my lip against making a comment about how ‘fucking hot’ I think he is as he removes his jacket. The tattooed arms stand out against the muted greys of the seaside town and I lean across and kiss his bicep.
Dylan raises an eyebrow. “I thought you didn’t like tattoos.”
“I don’t, but I like your arms.” I raise an eyebrow in return.
He wraps the muscled arms around and pulls me close. “Sky?”
“What?”
“I’m the happiest I’ve been forever,” he says, and rubs his nose into my hair.
“I think you’re exaggerating, Sandchurch isn’t that exciting.”
“Here, with you, is the happiest I’ve ever been.”
A seagull nearby pokes around at a discarded wrapper, and the sound of the breaking waves on the beach below fill me with the happiness of past summers here.
“Because we’re caught in our childhood memories?” I ask him, turning my head to meet his eyes.
“No, because I’m here with you. I’ve never wanted to be around someone as much as I crave to be around you. Weird, huh?”
“Odd.” I know what he means, but surely he knows this is an illusion too.
“Odd…” He captures my face in his hands, soft mouth on mine. We lose ourselves in a magical kiss to match the spellbinding world we’re living in, a kiss and a place I want to go on forever.
I don’t know who Dylan Morgan is, but my heart hurts at the thought of how this will end. Famous or not, I’m leaving this man behind in a couple of days and trailing back to Bristol. I crave Dylan too, but I can’t tell him. We enmesh more as each hour passes and I’m dreading the pain when our lives are pulled apart again.
Chapter Fourteen
We head home to Broadbeach, and I tell Dylan I need to stop at the supermarket and pick up some snacks. He looks at me as if I’m speaking a foreign language.
“Snacks? You just went shopping yesterday. How much do you eat?”
I slap his shoulder. “Cheeky… I forgot to buy chocolate yesterday. And you drank half of my cans of coke.”
“Right. Sorry, I’m not used to buying my own food. I’ll give you some money.”
“Seriously? No, I don’t want your money.”
Dylan pulls his wallet from his shorts pocket. “How much is chocolate or whatever? I haven’t shopped recently.”
“Seriously?” I repeat.
The more time passes, the greater my suspicion this guy is more famous than I realise. He chews his lip, and I get he doesn’t want me to comment.
“I presume you’re not getting out of the car. Do you want anything?”
“Not at the moment. Maybe later.” He raises a suggestive eyebrow and I tut at him and open the door.
We’ve chosen to stop at the out of town supermarket again, a trip here will be quicker and the car park is bigger for hiding in. With a basket full of high fat and high sugar snacks, I pick up some apples too. For balance.
Following a trip through the self-serve checkout, I stroll across the car park. Dylan is slouched in his seat, sunglasses and cap on. I dump the bags on the back seat and smirk at him.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
“You. In this car. Not quite your style is it?”
“I like being in your car; because I’m with you.”
Again, Dylan’s simple words fill my stomach with a warm fuzziness, partly because I feel exactly the same. Following our weird date to Sandchurch, a tiny part of me believes there could be more to this than a holiday romance.
Holding the thought, I turn the ignition, the car doesn’t start. Several attempts later and things aren’t looking good. Grinding and spluttering from the engine indicates we won’t be moving anywhere soon. As I repeatedly attempt to start the car, Dylan shifts in his seat, stiffening.
“What’s wrong with the car?” he snaps.
“How the hell should I know? I’m not a mechanic.”
An elderly couple pass the car, the man struggling with a piled trolley and Dylan slumps in his seat, holding his forehead. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“We have to get out of here? There’s a lot more people around than Sandchurch.”
“I’m trying!” To reinforce this, I grind the ignition again.
At a loss of what to do, I pop the bonnet and climb out. Propping it open I stare in confusion at the greasy engine. What am I looking for? There’s plenty of petrol and I know how to check the oil and water but that’s the limit of my expertise. Tears of frustration prick my eyes as I slam the bonnet shut again. Through the windscreen, I see Dylan sitting arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Today is another unusually hot summer’s day and the sun adds to the perspiration on my forehead. I climb back in the car and Dylan looks expectantly at me.
“What? I haven’t fixed anything.”
“Shit!” He lowers his window. “It’s fucking hot in here.”
“Calm down. I’ll call the breakdown people and get them to take a look. Maybe it’s the battery.”
Dylan squeezes his eyes closed, and sucks in a breath. “No. You can’t call people.”
“What? Do you want to sit here all day? Or walk back to the house?”
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. 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. 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 splayed 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’s going to stop and I flick my gaze between her and Dylan. She pauses. Shit.
I spring out of the door and grab his 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 on 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, crushes his mouth on mine. Annoyed he’s gone 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 was looking.”
“Probably, why?”
“I thought that might throw her off the scent.”
“So Dylan Morgan kissing a woman is more inconspicuous than hanging out in a supermarket car park?”
Dylan lightly touches my face; 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?”
“You called me Jamie so I carried on the charade.” As if the word charade isn’t enough of a punch in the guts, his next words follow this up with stab in the heart. “And you’re not the sort of girl Dylan Morgan would be seen kissing.”
I smack my hands into his chest, hurt firing straight to the insecure centre of my brain, triggering immediate anger. “What the hell? You dickhead!”
He steps back, alarmed, and tries to catch my arm but misses. “No, listen, that’s not what I meant.”
Head whirling from the desire replaced by anger, I go to the other side of the car and grab my handbag from the footwell. “Stay here and find someone else to help you. I’ll get the bus and bloody walk home!”
Tears of humiliation press behind my eyes, blurring my vision. I know he won’t follow me, expose himself more and even if he does, I don’t care. I storm across the car park towards the bus stop I saw near the other side of the store.
Summer Sky: A Blue Phoenix Book Page 10