The reporters haven’t figured out much about me yet.
I’m just the Blue Shoes Girl, with no name.
Maybe that’s for the best.
I’m deeply focused on my laptop screen when a tap on the window startles me.
I glance up to see a face in the darkness. Dylan has climbed the ladder and is at my window again.
My body goes through shock and terror, but just a short blast. My heart rate is elevated as I open the window.
I smack his shoulders and give him hell, but I’m mostly excited to see him.
“This is the last time I’ll do the window thing,” he says, laughing.
“I thought you weren’t flying in until tomorrow morning?”
“Surprise.” Grinning, he steps in through the window and starts unlacing his boots.
“And what do you mean, this is the last time? You’ll start using the front door, like a normal person?”
“I won’t need to climb in the window when you’re living with me. Not unless you put in a special request.” He looks up from his boots with a wickedly sexy expression. His dark hair is falling across one eye.
“Where is this place where I’m living with you? The firehall?”
“No, that’s just a rental. I flew in early today so I could put an offer on a house here in LA.”
My jaw drops. “You’re buying a house? Shouldn’t you wait?”
“My life is here, Jess. Aren’t you happy? There’s a pool. I could picture you lounging by the pool, and I had to have it.”
“Have it?”
“Have everything. You. The pool. Everything. When I was depressed, I didn’t want anything. Right now, I feel the opposite way.”
He stands and pulls his shirt off over his head. His chest and stomach muscles ripple, drawing my eyes.
Now I’m imagining us lounging by a pool.
“Everything,” I murmur.
He steps toward me and takes me in his arms. His smell is different tonight, like he’s been touched by perfume. I don’t like this scent. My stomach pitches like I’m about to be sick.
He pulls me to him, hugging me tightly and stroking my hair.
“You’ll love the pool.” His voice so gritty, it sends shivers everywhere.
I kiss his shoulder and smell his neck and hair, inhaling deeply.
“You smell different,” I whisper.
His hands move down my back slowly, toward my hips.
“I’ve been using hotel soaps and shampoo,” he says. “I really need a haircut. Hey, stop smelling my hair. You’re making me feel like a girl.”
I let out a laugh of relief. His new scent is probably from shampoo or hair product. Not perfume from another girl.
He pulls away from me and studies my face. His dark brown eyes are playful. His face is familiar, but changed. I’ve seen him on TV now. He’s different on TV from how he is in real life. Still charming, but not as real.
Now I’m seeing him through this other layer. His public face.
“There’s something going on with you,” he says.
“Me? There’s absolutely nothing going on with me. I’ve been working in the archives all week. You’re the one who was in New York with Marley and Bianca, living it up like a superstar.”
“Is this how it’s going to be? I go out and work, and you get all moody?”
I cross my arms and step back. “I’m not moody.”
He makes a face and picks up his shirt from the floor. He pulls the shirt back on.
I’m not sure what’s happening here, but putting his shirt back on feels aggressive. Like he wants to hurt me.
“I’m not moody,” I say again. “I’m sorry I’m not however you want me to be. You climb in my window at midnight, with no warning, and you get what you get.”
He points his finger at me. “Moody. Bordering on bitchy.”
“Oh, go fuck yourself, Dylan Wolf.”
He raises his eyebrows and recoils.
“I didn’t mean that.”
After a silent moment, he says, “Yes, you did. But I suppose I had that coming.”
“Maybe I am moody. I don’t know.”
I look down at the ugly sweatpants I’m wearing. These gray sweats have stains and holes all over them. My shirt isn’t much better.
With a sigh, I hike up the sweats so the crotch isn’t hanging down to my knees. “You should have let me know you were coming,” I say softly. “I look hideous.”
“Let’s start tonight all over again,” he says, with equal softness.
“It’s midnight.”
He walks over to my laptop and takes a look at the article on the screen. His face contorts, like he’s in pain.
“I can see why you’re moody,” he says. “You shouldn’t be reading all these lies. If you want to know what I’m thinking or doing, just ask me. Don’t read this stuff.”