Summer Sky (10 page)

He runs fingers through his hair. "I told you what happens when I fuck girls, I don’t want to have that with you, I want to…"

Oh, my God. Fucking. Again.
"Be friends?" I cross my arms over my naked chest and scrabble around on the floor for my top.

"Yes…no… Fuck, I don’t know. The last couple of days with you have been amazing. There’re a few more before you need to leave – I don’t want to spoil this."

The pink in my face caused by his touch and kisses is replaced with embarrassment from his words. I climb off him, stumbling as I do and pull the top over my head.

"Don’t let me down so gently, Dylan. If I’m not the kind of girl you like to
fuck
, fine. Just say."

"Sky, in case you didn't notice, I have a hard-on the size of fucking Florida here, you’re sexy as hell. And I wasn’t going to
fuck
you. You deserve more."

I need to stop kidding myself. I wanted this. Him. The fantasy.

"It’s not as if we’ll ever have a relationship, is it? So, we either do this or we don’t. I don’t think this between us would ever be more than sex, Dylan."

"Maybe."

"Maybe what?"

He huffs and leans back. "Look, sorry I upset you. You have no idea of the self-control it’s taking not to drag you upstairs and show you exactly what you do to me."

I scoff. "Show me a good time, you mean? Arrogant much?"

He stiffens. "I don’t get complaints usually."

"No, your endless lines of girls are probably grateful that the famous Dylan Morgan lets them into his bed. You know, I think you’re probably right." I stand and grab my discarded bra from the floor. "This is a bad idea."

"Sky…" He stands and touches my arm, but I shake him away. "Oh, great; so, even this has fucked things up?"

"Forget it ever happened!" I snap and on my wobbly legs, I stomp upstairs.

In the bedroom, I climb onto the top bunk and curl my knees under my chin. Was I really planning on sex with an almost stranger? Good thing he has more self-control than I have, because awkward would’ve been an understatement if we'd… I never have sex with people I don’t know. Ever. In fact, apart from Grant, I've had sex with two other people. Sexual hedonism doesn’t suit me.

Holding my breath, I listen. The house is often noisy – creaks, groans and tapping fill the quiet, as if the place is alive. I don’t notice them usually, but when I’m straining to hear Dylan, they magnify.

Footsteps on the stairs halt on the creaking floorboard between the two bedrooms. Panic rises – I don’t want to talk to him. A few minutes later, his bedroom door closes and footsteps thunder back downstairs. The front door slams.

We can hide from the reality of our lives, but we can’t hide from the reality of who we are. I grab my book from the bottom of the bed, fighting my impulse to google Dylan, because I don't want to know who he is yet.

*****

A few hours of embarrassed sulking later, I stalk downstairs. I've spent a fair bit of the time listening for movement in the house, but since the front door slammed shortly after our encounter, there's been no sound.

Good.

Dylan returns later in the evening and I deliberately don't ask where he's been. Where can he go? He's bedraggled, clothes damp and hair wet beneath his hoodie. The rain stopped a few hours ago and I can only presume he went on a very long walk.

We eye each other warily. If I stare at him any longer, the blushing will start so I turn away, back to my book. Books are useful objects for ignoring people.

"I was going to order pizza if you want something?" he asks.

"I'm fine. Thanks. I ate."

"Okay."

I always have room in my life for pizza, but I don't want to be around him. I'm not Dylan’s new toy and each time he kisses then rejects me, the worse I feel. I'm hyperaware of his every move as Dylan gets a drink in the kitchen and makes a phone call to order his meal. Do I leave the room before he comes back and traps me in his orbit again?

"Sky, can I talk to you." Dylan lowers himself in the armchair. He's removed the jacket and rubs his hand along his arm, a sign I'm beginning to notice spells unease.

"No."

He pulls his mouth tight, "No?"

"Correct."

"Right." He hesitates, shifting as if he's about to stand again, then remains seated. "Why?"

"I think we need to take this arrangement back to what it originally was. I'd leave but I haven't got..." I stop. He doesn't need to know I'm basically homeless. "I'll leave in a couple of days, unless
you
want to go now."

"I'm not leaving," he says, tone becoming icy.

"I didn't say you had to. But let’s keep out of each other's way?"

Dylan stops the arm rubbing and studies me with tired eyes. "If that's what you want."

"I made a mistake, Dylan. I just came out of a relationship. I’m hurt, and I think that's what caused this...situation. So you playing games with me hasn't helped."

Crap.
Didn't I say I wouldn't talk to him? I have to get out of this room before I say anything else.

"I'm not playing games..."

"I’m sorry, Dylan. Please. Let's forget all this. Enjoy your pizza."

Attempting to disguise my trembling hands by tucking them and the book beneath my arms, I do my best at stalking out of the room, and upstairs.

My heart thumps for a long time once I'm cocooned in my bedroom, and away from him, mind and body swirling with contradictions. I'm a confused, hurt girl escaping a broken relationship. I'm not the heroine of some book where a sexy rock star falls for the confused, hurt girl and makes everything better with amazing sex and sweet words of undying love.

Chapter Ten

The next morning, I wash the smell of Dylan from my hair and body and replace it with the familiar scent of my strawberry body wash. I had plans before Dylan interrupted them: find-me-again time in peaceful Cornwall. Today, I'm going to follow my plans. Wrapping a fluffy blue towel around my damp hair and another around my body, I open the bathroom door.

Dylan. He's on the top stair, on his way to his room from downstairs and he freezes. I stop too, caught by his familiar roving look; and tighten the knot on my towel. The world is conspiring against my attempts to resist this man. Dylan grips the handrail with hands that sent shivers across my skin, skin now exposed and heating as I recall the smooth strength of Dylan hidden beneath his T-shirt. His words about how amazing my lips felt on his also leap into my mind as I stare at his mouth. Being this irresistible should be a criminal offence.

"Fuck. Sorry," he mutters.

We're stuck. I need to pass him to get to my room, which faces the top of the stairs, and he needs to pass me to get to his room. And in the small hallway, there's room for little else than the sexually charged space between us. The logical solution? Step back into the bathroom, but I can't move. Water drips down my legs onto the carpeted hallway; and if he doesn't stop the gawking, I'll be a puddle on the floor too.

Dylan climbs the final stair and I step backwards, knocking into the wall. The towel wrapped around my hair falls, revealing wild tangles. I try to grab the towel before it hits the floor. Stupid move, because the action causes the towel around my body to slip, I manage to hook the towel back up before more than the top of my breasts are on show for Dylan.

He squeezes his eyes closed, and I’m convinced he’s holding his breath.

"Fuck," he mutters again.

The space between us contracts as Dylan inches past. I attempt to control my telltale breathing difficulty with a cough. He pauses. There's no doubt in my mind he can read exactly what my body wants. The expression in his blue eyes suggests he's one ounce of self-control away from responding.

Dylan doesn't touch me, but his effect on me in this moment is beyond anything Grant could do with a kiss. How's that possible? Dylan engulfs my judgement and if he did kiss me, everything I said last night would evaporate.

Heaving in a breath, Dylan continues by and I tense as his warm, bare arm brushes mine. When he gets to his bedroom door, he rests his head against the wood and expels the breath.

"Sky, please go and get dressed before I do something that will really piss you off." His voice is hoarse, spoken to the white door.

For a split second, I picture myself in a movie, dropping my towel and having a guy crazy for my irresistible body. Then I shake the ridiculous notion from my mind and grapple for the bedroom door handle.

Stepping into my room, I close and rest against the door, heart thumping. I have to get out of this house and away from him; clear my senses of the Dylan Effect.
 

*****

I drive to a nearby town and wander the tourist shops where I proceed to buy a pile of junk I will never do anything with apart from put in a drawer. Cute pottery figures of dragons, pretty notepads with matching pens, and a snow globe for my collection. When I was six, Gran bought me a snow globe from her visit to Scotland. Half a dozen snow globes later my family decided this unintentional collection was a hobby, and since then snow globes are the gift received from holidaying relatives. This globe has a summer beach scene inside which is plain odd.

I chose this town due to the size of the cream teas at the central cafe. Inside, I sit on a wicker chair at a table covered by a red and white tablecloth and wait for my order. A young girl, with dark hair scraped into a ponytail, brings me a metal pot of tea and a huge scone accompanied by small pots of jam and cream.

Tucking into my scone, I gaze around the small cafe. Tables are crammed together and most of the customers are older than me, and couples. Licking cream from my fingers, I have a pang of loneliness. Last time I came here was with Grant, and he frowned at me for using all the cream on my scone. I picture him - brown hair touching his ears and the sparkling green eyes that drew me to him all those years ago. But I don't miss Grant; the knot in my stomach is because of Dylan. If Dylan were with me, we'd chat and laugh. He'd tease me and I'd retort until we reached stalemate. Then he'd kiss me.

Whoever this man is, I'm caught in a gravitational pull to him I've never had before. As if a part of me and part of him knew each other before and are reconnecting. Which is bullshit, according to my non-romantic brain, but perfectly logical to characters in the books I read.

Dylan stays in my thoughts as I drive back to Broadbeach as I wonder what he's spent the day doing, and feeling sad that he's basically stuck where he is. How can he be so famous, people around here would recognise him? He's being too cautious, it's not as if he's royalty.

A trip back to Asda on the way home is required (Sorry again, Mrs Hughes). This time, I buy a sensible mix of all food groups, although some are better represented than others (crisps equals vegetables, right?). I'm happy with the fact I have ingredients to make actual meals, rather than pre-packed rubbish, although, those curries in the refrigerated section do look good...

Curries. Dylan. I should've left the night I dropped the curry on the floor. That was a sign, right? A waste of good curry, but I think, even then, something imperceptible linked us. So who am I kidding? I couldn't leave then, I couldn't go yesterday, and I'm returning to Dylan now.

The magazine section taunts me. I could casually flick through a couple of the magazines I never touch, to see if I can find Dylan's name or face. Or if he's famous enough, he may even be on the cover with a lurid headline - or a lurid woman.

I ignore the magazines, pay, and leave.

As I lug carrier bags from my car to the house in the drizzling rain, I mutter under my breath about the lack of Dylan who could help. When I get inside, the sound of water running in the bathroom upstairs flashes images of a naked Dylan across my vision. I dump the bags on the table and return to the cold drizzle.

The cupboards in the kitchen are narrow and full of plates, so there's little room for my purchases. I squat on the floor attempting to fit rice and pasta into the cupboard and don't notice Dylan come into the room.

"I'll help you unpack," he says.

In response, I bang my head on the cupboard I'm leaning inside, and shoot him a look while rubbing my head. "Thanks."

He's wearing a remorseful expression, but no shirt and his hair is damp. Exactly like the first time I saw him in the house. But without my knickers in his hands.

"Sorry about earlier," he says, "you have a weird effect on me."

I ignore the comment. "Is the semi-nakedness to try and distract me?"

He smirks. "Possibly."

I make a ‘humph’ noise and return to my unpacking.

Dylan pulls items from one of the bags and inspects them. "I should give you some money. I'm eating your stuff."

"Maybe go and buy your own then!"
He makes no response. I straighten and take a jar of sauce from the table.

"I can't. Can I?" he asks.

"You can't hide forever."