Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
I ended up hitting the fifth-floor button on my way up to my penthouse.
It was Dylan’s first week in New York. The least I could do was make sure she’d survived it.
I rang the doorbell. No answer. I glanced at my Patek Philippe, frowning. Ten at night. She must be home. She didn’t have a babysitter, and I imagined it was way past the child’s bedtime.
Had something happened to her?
If so, it’s not your goddamn responsibility. You already saved her once, the metaphorical devil on my shoulder said.
She’s your best friend’s baby sister. If the chick is dead, Row will be a major pain in the ass. Already he’s irrepressibly grumpy, the angel on my shoulder countered.
Making an executive decision, I pulled out the extra key Row had given me and turned it inside its hole. I pushed the door open, peering into the apartment. It was quiet and dark, save for the bluish hue of electronic screens. Maybe Dylan had just called it a night early. But I wasn’t going to leave before confirming she and that annoying mini version of her were okay.
Stepping inside, I closed the door and sauntered past the living room and kitchen. I stopped in the hallway, filling the doorframe to the nursery. Her daughter was curled up in a too-small cot, her stubby, Pillsbury-boy arms encircling that damn pink penis. She seemed perfectly fine.
I advanced farther down to the master bedroom. Pushed the door open. The bed was empty, still made, the linen pressed under the mattress like in a hotel. I listened to the hum of the AC, the traffic blaring from downstairs, and detected the gentle noise of water swishing. My throat bobbed with a swallow. She was taking a bath.
Good. Now you know. Turn around. Walk away.
But something stopped me. What if she’d drowned? Got injured? Fallen when she got out of the bath?
I stepped to the ajar en-suite door, feeling very much like the creeper I apparently was. A tiny sigh echoed in the bathroom. It had a floor-to-ceiling view of Manhattan, one of those reflective-finish windows that gave the glass a one-way mirror effect. She could watch the entire stretch of Fifth Avenue without it watching her back.
I caught a glimpse of her, and my pulse kick-flipped right down my pants, making my cock throb.
Dylan had her naked back to me, everything from her spine down covered by a sheet of bubbles. Her hair was caught in a white claw clip. She was staring out the window—not down at the busy, lively street full of people but up at the sky. Her chin was propped on the back of her hands, and in that moment in time, she was that beautiful girl I left behind in Staindrop.
The most beautiful girl in the world.
Wild but soft. Brave but lost. Imperfect but whole.
“Oh, look,” she said, our eyes locking through my reflection in the window. “It’s my wallet.”
Her words were harsh and sarcastic, but there was something tired and defeated about her demeanor. Something that made me step inside without being invited and lean a shoulder against the wall.
“You shouldn’t have let yourself in,” she said, her voice void of anger, and I remembered Dylan had never really had her privacy. She’d always lived under other people’s roofs, never spreading those beautiful, black-tipped wings of hers.
“That is no way to greet your fiancé,” I tutted.
“I forfeit, smart-ass. I feel too much like shit to engage in this battle of wits.” Her gaze rolled back to that invisible spot in the sky. To the liquid darkness and the stars that spun inside it like silver freckles.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’ve spent the past few days obsessively looking for a job and putting Grav in front of the TV,” she explained. “She didn’t do anything fun. And she misses her granny and Marty. I feel like the worst mom in the world.”
“In the world?” I snorted, pushing off the wall, striding toward the foot of the clawed bath and taking a seat on the edge of it. I reached down to touch the water, watching the suds disperse as they met my skin. “Bitch, please. You’re not even top twenty thousand worst mothers in the state. What about that asshole woman from Westchester who killed her kid and called 911 after a month?”
No comment. More star-watching. It was the first time I’d seen the seductive, feisty Dylan Casablancas being contemplative and vulnerable.
Finally, she opened her mouth. “I have a job interview tomorrow at eleven. I need you to babysit Grav.”
Shit. I knew it was coming, but I’d pushed it to the back of my mind.
I worked my jaw back and forth. “I’m not good with ki—”
“We have an agreement.” She cut me off, whipping her head around to look at me. “And I know you won’t let me down, since you need me on your arm for Row’s spice-brand event.”