“Don’t be. It was a long shot.”
His smile didn’t budge the rest of his face. He turned his wrist and glanced at his watch, a gorgeous black-faced gold Movado. “It’s ten thirty. What time do you go to bed?”
“Eleven.”
He nodded and sat on the couch beside her.
“Let me guess. You’re not leaving until I go to bed?”
“I’d like to stay.”
Crapola. How many women would kill to have that offer from Dylan McKay?
“I’m just going to do some reading in bed before I turn in. You can leave now.”
Dylan ran a hand down his face. “You’re trying to get rid of me.”
“Only because I don’t need you to babysit me. I’m fine.”
“Then I’ll go,” he said, standing up, leaving her gaze to follow the long length of his body as he straightened. “I’ll text you at eleven and see how you’re doing.”
“My kind of guy,” she teased.
His lips curved up. “You’re not going to prevent me from checking on you.”
She rose, too, and amazed herself at her own stability, considering she’d fainted just a few hours ago. “I’ll call you in the morning. It’s a promise.”
“Thanks,” he said, and she followed him to the door. When he turned to her, they were only a breath apart, him towering above her by six inches. The scent of raw power and lime emanated from his throat and lingered in her nostrils. His golden hair gleamed under the foyer light and his eyes, deadly and devastatingly blue, found hers. “Make an appointment with a doctor for next week. I’d like to go with you,” he said.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d want to go with her, but Dylan escorting her to an obstetrician’s office would be big news if word got out. And there would be repercussions. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely,” he said immediately. “I’ll let you know my schedule.”
He laced his hands with hers then and gave a little tug, bringing her closer. His beautiful mouth was only inches away. “I want you to move into my house, Emma. Think about it and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Without hesitation his head came forward and his lips met with hers. The kiss was brief, but amazing and glorious. A glimpse of what could be. A tease. A temptation.
And when she opened her eyes, he’d already turned away and was gone.
Yes, yes, yes would’ve been her answer. If only he’d asked for the right reasons.
But Dylan didn’t want her. He wanted her baby.
And she wasn’t about to live her life unloved.
Ever again.
* * *
Emma didn’t pick up a book to read. Instead, she grabbed the phone and speed-dialed Brooke’s number. She picked up on the first ring.
“Hi, Brooke. It’s me, checking in.”
“Emma, it’s late. Are you okay?”
“Right now, I’m feeling fine. Did I wake you?”
“Gosh no. I’m dead on my feet, but wide-awake. I’m done prepping for tomorrow. Rocky and Wendy are doing their share and we’re managing.”
“That’s great news. I’ve been thinking about you all day. How was the silent auction?”
“It went well. We had lots of bids and I’m guessing the charity made lots of money. I haven’t tallied it up yet. That comes later tonight.”
“Do it in the morning, Brooke. You sound beat.”
“I am, but in a good way.”
Emma’s pangs of guilt resurfaced. Poor Brooke. The business side of things wasn’t her forte. She had a creative streak a mile long and Pinterest could learn a few things from her when it came to party planning. But anything with numbers, and Brooke was at a complete loss.
“So, no snags for tomorrow?” Tomorrow was the celebrity golf tournament, the golf widow’s luncheon and the formal Give a Dollar or a Thousand Dinner and raffle. All the celebrities golfing would attend the dinner. Their appearance made for heftier donations, but they came with a high price for their time. They were accustomed to and expected fabulous cuisine and service, so this task was even more daunting.
“Nope, not a one.”
Emma breathed a sigh of relief. “Good.”
“How are things with you?” Brooke questioned her in a softer tone that left no room for doubt what she was really getting at.
“You guilted Dylan into checking on me.”
“Yeah, I did. I’m sorry, honey, but I’m worried about you. So, you spent time with him tonight?”
“Yes, and I...well...he knows my situation now.”
“You told him!”
Her face scrunched up at her friend’s enthusiasm. “Don’t sound so happy. He’s in as much shock as I am.”
“But at least he knows the truth.”
“Yeah, but nothing jarred his memory.”
“That’s not really the point. You can’t worry about the past. At least you’ll move forward toward the future.”
Normally, she told Brooke everything, but tonight wasn’t the night to tell her about Dylan’s offer. She wasn’t about to move into his mansion. And if Brooke knew, she’d probably side with her brother on this. Two McKays would be too hard to fight. “Yeah, I guess.” She waited a beat. “I’m glad things went well tonight. And I know tomorrow will be amazing. You should hit the sack. That’s what I’m going to do. Love you, Brooke.”
“Love you, too. Sleep well.”
Emma hung up the phone and undressed, slipping out of her street clothes and into her pajamas. She climbed into bed, shut off the table lamp and snuggled her face deep into her cushy pillow. Her body sank into the mattress and she sighed out loud. Nothing was better than a comfy bed after a rough day. But just as she closed her eyes, Dylan’s image popped into her head.
She owed him a text.
Stretching her arm out, she fumbled for her phone on the nightstand, punched in his number and typed out her text.
I’m tucked in and feeling well. Good night.
Short and sweet. It’d been a long time since she’d had to answer to anyone. Derek Purdy, the man she now thought of as The Jerk, had cured her of that in her sophomore year of college. She hated even thinking of him anymore. He didn’t deserve another second of her time.
But Dylan, on the other hand, would be in her life forever now.
He was no jerk, and from now on they would have to answer to each other.
For the baby’s sake.
Five
“Rolling,” the first assistant director called out as Dylan stood on his mark on the Stage One Studios back lot. The cast and crew of Resurrection SEALs became quiet. They were on the same dirt road where Roy had died and where Dylan had been hit with shrapnel. If being here didn’t jog his memory, nothing would. Dylan tried to focus. He was a professional, and the crew had worked long hours this morning prepping this scene. The director called, “Action,” and Dylan went into performance mode, delivering his lines. He stumbled once, mixing up the words, and looked to the script supervisor for his line.
Marcy offered it. “Whether or not you give me those papers, Joe, the colonel is going to hear about this.”
They reshot the scene several times and Dylan went through the paces for coverage and tights on his face before his work was done. The director, Gabe Novotny, walked over and put a hand on his shoulder. “That first scene had to be hard on you. But you’re through it now. How does it feel?”
“I can’t lie. It’s a little weird, Gabe. Mostly, it’s knowing that Roy died right here, and now, here I am, doing my job, back to the status quo and moving forward without him.”
“We’re all feeling it, Dylan. But you managed the scene. And the next one will be a little easier, and then the next.”
Dylan didn’t have much choice. He was under contract, but a part of him wanted to bail on this project now, even though he’d done intense training, including daily ten-mile beach runs and weight lifting to become Josh O’Malley, Navy SEAL. “I’m hoping you’re right. Still is strange to be here, though.” He knew enough about survivor guilt to understand that the ache in the pit of his stomach wasn’t going away anytime soon. He missed Roy, and if he’d been the one to get into the car that day as planned, instead of Roy, he’d be the one floating atop the high seas now with his ashes scattered all over the Pacific. “If we’re done for now, I think I’ll head back to my trailer.”
“Actually, an officer from the LAPD is due in the production office any minute now. He’s asked to speak to you and me, Marcy and the execs. Maury Allen was asked to be there, too, so it’s something big if the police want the head of the studio there. You might remember the officer. He consulted with us early on in the film about two months ago.”
“Oh, yeah. Detective Brice. He’s a big Clippers fan. We talked basketball for a while.”
“That’s him. It’s about Roy’s death, Dylan.” Gabe took his eyeglasses off and rubbed them clean on the tail of his shirt. “So I’m betting it’s not a social call.”
“All right.”
Gabe glanced past the chaos of the crew taking down the rigging and spotted Marcy speaking with the girls from Hair and Makeup. “You about through, Marce?”