I could picture it—a baby teenage boy, awkward and gangly after a recent growth spurt, chocolate eyes like his father, a dry but still underdeveloped sense of humor. The two would crack witty wisecracks while forming armies and taking over the world, and Dylan would be so enamored with the idea of connecting with his son, he wouldn’t see that the same son was throwing the game.
It was a sweet image, and even if it was inaccurate, I liked imagining it that way. It made me miss my dad who’d died ten years ago this holiday season. I had fond memories of nights when it was just the two of us. Years after my mother had died when Sabrina had gone off to school at Harvard. Nights playing Rummikub past midnight. After I’d win a handful of games, I’d start losing on purpose so my father would stay interested in playing.
Those were good times.
These were beautiful moments Dylan was creating, too. Did he know that? He had to assume they had some meaning. Why else be so engaged? Why else buy an apartment he only planned on using a handful of times a year? He was a very wealthy businessman, a man I suspected that could afford staff and “people” to look after all his needs. He probably lived quite a different life when he was back home in London, but here, where his son was concerned, he seemed very ordinary. He was just like most dads. He cared about his kid, and it showed.
It made me want to care too. It made me want to ask too many questions and get involved.
But that was always my problem—I cared too easily. And this wasn’t a situation where caring helped me.
I blew the air from my lungs and shook my head free from sentimental thoughts. Yes, Dylan was a good dad. But I needed to focus on the kind of “daddy” he could be to me.
This was a conversation I decided would be best voice-to-voice.
I hit the phone icon next to his name and put the receiver up to my ear.
And then I waited.
And waited.
He made me wait four flipping rings before answering. Four long rings where I pictured him staring at my name on his screen and panicking, trying to decide what to do.
Answer it, you nincompoop! You were just texting me! I know you’re there!
“Audrey,” he said in a stern bass when he finally picked up. It made my stomach buzz deep and low, as though trying to match his pitch and resonance.
“Dylan,” I said, in kind.
Then neither of us said anything and silence stretched out between us.
It wasn’t awkward silence, really, but it was noticeable. Noticeable enough that my lips went dry, and my hands began to sweat. It seemed to me it was his turn to say something since I’d just spoken, whatever it was that I’d said. I’d already forgotten. I was too consumed with replaying the way he’d said my name. How beautiful it sounded when he said it in his very British dialect. It made me feel regal and classic and adored, which was crazy since we were practically strangers.
But I felt that way all the same.
And I sat there without speaking as I soaked it in. I didn’t know what his reason was for not talking, but that was mine.
“You called me,” he said eventually. “I believe you have the obligation to do the talking here, Audrey.”
That answered that question. And he’d said my name again, and I felt heady.
But I got my act together, somehow. “Yes. Right! I wanted to tell you that I can be there in half an hour. Sooner if you don’t mind getting me in my pajamas. What I wear shouldn’t really matter since the clothes won’t be on long anyway. Unless that’s not how you do things. Do you keep your clothes on and just uncover the necessary part? That does sound hot, in a way. Maybe the secret to all my bad sex was getting naked?”
“Bad sex from getting naked? No. I don’t think that’s it. I’ve done both with the same results. I expect we’ll see what...hold on. Hold on. What am I even saying?” He sounded flustered, like he always was when I threw myself at him. I found that part charming as well. “Audrey, it’s nearly one in the morning. And Aaron is still here. He’s sleeping right now, but I don’t think it would be appropriate to have a late-night visitor of the female persuasion.”
Yeah, probably not.
“Or any persuasion, for that matter. Ellen would have my hide, and the whole purpose of getting this flat was to make things easier between all of us, not more strained.”
“Fine,” I said, laying as much disappointment as possible into the single syllable.
He let out a slow breath, and I pictured him running a hand through his hair as he did. I’d seen him do it on more than one occasion, and now it had become A Very Dylan gesture in my mind.
“What’s your day look like tomorrow?” he asked.
It was my turn to sigh. “Tomorrow’s terrible. Well, not terrible, really. Terrible for the two of us getting together, though. Sabrina took the day off to take me around the city. And then we’re seeing the Rockettes’ Christmas show. It’s going to be jam-packed with holiday fun. Woot! Oh, hey! Maybe you could come up with some project she needs to take care of at the office, and make her have to cancel her plans so she can come in and work.”
“I can’t possibly do that. I’m not in her direct chain of command. I don’t even work in the same office. Not to mention the questionable judgement of ethics required to use my authority over her simply to arrange a booty call. And you can’t tell me you don’t want to spend time with your sister. You came here for Thanksgiving break to be with her, not with…” He paused and seemed to come to his senses. “I see now. You were winding me up.”
I bit my lip to stifle a laugh. “I was totally ‘winding you up.’” I was also keeping that phrase and using it forever and ever. “But I’m thoroughly impressed with your moral code. You’re a good man, Dylan Locke.”
“Or, at least, I’m a gullible one.” He laughed softly. “Then if the daytime is off the table, that leaves the night. I’m meeting with some old friends for dinner so I won’t have Aaron. I don’t imagine we’ll go too late, and I can cut it short if need be. Will you be too tired to make a trip over here after your show?”
“Uh, I’m a college student. All-nighters are kind of my gig. The question is—will it be a problem for you, old man?”
“You like to remind me of our age difference, I think.” I could practically hear his scowl through the line.
“Only because it makes you so hot and bothered.”
“Does it make you hot and bothered?” His voice had dropped and the words that came out were ragged.
“Yes, Professor Locke.” My answer sounded just as raw as the question, and the buzz in my belly had spread out through my limbs. It made me hotter the more I thought I about it.
“Let me ask you then—as your professor, I should know what sort of prior education you’ve acquired.”
Oh, geez. He was always incredibly sexy, but he was even hotter when he played the teacher part. Especially when he was also enthusiastic.
“Um.” I stood up to pace the room, hoping to release some of the restlessness he stirred in me. “Let’s see.”
“If you’re uncomfortable discussing this—”
“I’m not,” I cut him off. “At all. I just know our time is limited, and I have a lot to learn.”
“I find it hard to believe that you are truly that inexperienced. Why don’t you just lay it all out, and I can decide what would be most useful for us to focus on?”
I got the sense that he wasn’t so much feeling me out as he was feeling himself out. Trying to decide if he was really up for what I wanted of him.