Dylan(57)

Still, they’re so wrapped up in themselves right now, and with their not so little secret, I can understand. They still haven’t told the others. They’re caught up in making plans for their future. I can see it in the way they look at each other, the smiles they share when they think no one is looking. It’s sweet and heart-warming and makes me want to leave them alone, so they can enjoy this special time in their lives in peace.

Meanwhile, everything has changed. My dad froze my bank account and canceled my cards. Everything I own is still at my apartment. I wonder if my access card and key still work. At least I’m starting work at Mr. Walker’s organization tomorrow.

I push the thoughts away, for fear I might scream with frustration, fear, anger... Sadness. Deep inside, it hurts to think my parents’ money and social status means more to them than me. Then again, I’ve known it all my life.

But I feel okay. Truth be told, without a place to call my own, with barely any money in my pocket, for the first time in my life I feel good.

Except… I miss Dylan. I can’t believe he dropped everything and came to see me, went with us to the police station and invited me to stay in his house.

Hard as it is, though, I have to move on. Have to let go of him. Have to go back to my apartment, get my stuff, find another place to live. Start work. Find a second job.

With a groan, I sink on the sofa, which serves as my temporary bed, and tug on my hair. Is this how Dylan feels all the time—so overwhelmed with worry about everything? Finding money, getting a job, plus taking care of his brothers? Theoretically I knew it all along, but for the first time I can really empathize—and sympathize. For the first time I can really imagine what his life must be like.

It makes my heart clench for him.

And yet I must let go.

With that thought, I get up and unpack the new clothes I bought together with Audrey and Dakota. I pull them out of the paper bags and spread them on the sofa. Ripped jeans, two colorful sweaters, a few inexpensive T-shirts and sweatpants, thick socks, underwear, and military boots. Cheap things. Things I won’t care if I tear or stain. Cool things.

A makeover. The princess turning into a girl sitting by the ashes. The ashes of her past life. A princess no more.

Slowly, a smile breaks over my face. Can’t remember the last time I bought clothes without considering what my parents will say, what event they might be for, who might see me in them.

Screw them. This is me. Appearances do count, if they reflect what’s going on inside—and inside I want to break this mold, this bejeweled cocoon, and be free.

I dress, pull on my trusted charcoal gray coat, grab my purse and pause. I can’t see Dylan. But I told him I’d pick Miles up, and I promised Miles I wouldn’t vanish from their lives.

Complicated. But I don’t have to see Dylan. Pick Miles up, deposit him at school, pick him up around three, drive and deposit him at home. Wave goodbye. Leave. Done.

So I climb into my jeep, pulling my hair back into a ponytail, glad not to have to bother with makeup and a hairdresser, and head off.

Only as I park in front of Dylan’s house, I realize my mistake. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.

Dylan is standing on the porch, zipping up Mile’s jacket. Teo is standing next to them, looking small, cute and cuddly, wearing a red jacket with the hood pulled up. Dylan straightens, tall and imposing with those wide shoulders and muscled body, and my heart flips over at the sight of his handsome face.

Jesus. Seeing the three of them there is enough to make a girl melt into a puddle of goo. It takes effort to look away, and I pretend to check messages on my phone while waiting for Miles to come down the path to the car.

When I look up again, I see that my Prime Directive, prohibiting involvement, is about to fail epically. Now, why I’m thinking of Star Trek as Dylan walks down the path, somber and beautiful, the morning light making a halo of his short hair and catching on his square jaw, is anybody’s guess. I’m not into science-fiction movies, like Erin is.

I guess my brain just short-circuited. That might explain it.

I mean, the way this boy walks sends bolts of fire down my belly and makes my breasts tighten and ache. He moves like a panther, his hips slowly rolling as he walks down the path. You can tell he packs serious muscle in his tall frame, even when moving slowly for his little brothers to keep up.

And he’s looking straight at me. Right at the fiery blush climbing my neck to my cheeks and ears.

No, no, no. I wasn’t supposed to see him. I can’t do this—can’t keep the Prime Directive, can’t frigging think when I see him. Every time I look at him, I have to fight the urge to shed my clothes and rub myself all over his hot body.