Her Billionaires_ Boxed Set(78)

“You mean no assumptions.” Her voice was hard. Cold. Closed off. She nailed Ice Queen, that’s for sure. It made the awkward teen in him come out, his voice shifting up.

“I just—I mean—I,” he choked out. Fuck. This wasn’t how he meant it!

“Mike,” she said, interrupting him. “When you tell me there are ‘no expectations’ what you really mean is that normally you and Dylan would want sex. Expect sex. But you’re— what? Being kind and letting me off the hook tonight?” She searched the room, looking for something, and then her head froze. Her purse. She was looking for her purse.

Ah, fuck. Mike had driven her to leave by trying so hard, with good intentions, to put her at ease.

Once again, his plans destroyed everything. This wasn’t really happening, was it? In horror he watched as she handed him her glass of red wine and walked to the couch where her purse sat.

Dylan appeared in the doorway, mouthing “What the fuck?” to Mike as Laura turned her back to them, pausing with her hand inches from her purse strap.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. Turning toward them her eyes widened at the sight of Dylan, who now wore half a pound of flour in his hair and on the front of a bright red apron he’d donned. It even sprinkled the tops of his toes, giving him a disheveled, slighty-nuts chef look that made Mike wonder whether Laura noticed.

“Guys, we need to talk.” She picked up her purse and sat down, plunking it in her lap, then cocked one eyebrow at Dylan’s appearance, a hint of a smile spreading her lips. Good. Good. Mike let out a rush of air; he’d been holding his breath without realizing it, as if that could stop time. Or, maybe, prevent him from bungling this. Too late for both.

“I don’t have anything to lose here, so I’m just going to say this.” She paused, eyes rolling up and to the left, as if rethinking something. “Well, I have plenty to lose,” she muttered, “but pride can be rebuilt.”

With a frown, she put her purse back down and stood, waving her hand at Mike and Dylan, who both followed her lead and soon Mike found himself sitting next to Dylan, who plopped on the couch with a poof that made Mike cough a bit, flour now sprinkling his forearm. He gave Dylan a c’mon, are you kidding me? look.

“What? I get artistic in the kitchen.” Dylan self-consciously wiped his face, looked at his palms, and grimaced at the white powder.

“You cook like a four year old with an Easy Bake oven and a fan.”

“Hey!” Laura said firmly. “Me. Remember me?” Sheepish, they both had the sense to dip their heads before giving her their eyes. Mike suppressed an urge to shove Dylan. Unfortunately, Dylan had the impulse control of Bill Clinton in a room full of interns and couldn’t hold back his nudge. Mike simmered. Not worth it. Not worth it. Not worth it.

His eyes settled on Laura.

Worth it.

Dylan blinked, his eyelashes white. “Yes.” His voice came out like silk. “Of course we do.”

“Then shut up and stop the childish crap and hear me out.” She wasn’t angry now—her voice was preternaturally calm, and it creeped Mike out. Like she was detaching. Detaching not in some Buddhist sense, but detaching from them. From the relationship. From the possibility of what he knew, deep inside, was achievable.

So that creepy feeling needed to be respected.

And so did Laura.

“You know that what you did was wrong. You know that you should have told me.” Ah, here it comes, he thought. Good. Let’s get this out in the open so we can deal with it like adults.

“We don’t need to talk about this right now,” Dylan jumped in. Mike’s hands twitched. If he strangled him would it be justifiable homicide? Instead he shoved him, hard, and stepped on his foot.

“Ow! Hey! What was that about?” Dylan crossed his leg up and massaged his instep. More flour. Jesus.

Mike gestured toward Laura while disdainfully brushing flour off his arm, carefully aiming it toward Dylan. “Let the lady talk.”

A grateful look from Laura was his reward. “We do need to talk about it. Now. So settle down there, buckaroo.”

Both men flinched, Mike’s entire body turning into a lightning rod during a storm, directing all the electricity in the air through his nose, making his scalp stand on fire. Dylan just gawked at her, wide-eyed.

Instantly on alert, she seemed to realize something had happened, but Mike knew she wouldn’t understand. “Did I just say something wrong?” she asked.

He leaned forward, wishing he could touch her, soothe her. Knowing he couldn’t. Not yet. “No, no. Nothing wrong. It’s just—that’s what Jill used to call Dylan when he was, well, when he just was. Buckaroo. We haven’t heard it in nearly two years.”