Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
I nstead of the balcony, Mallory and Dylan ended up on the couch in her suite. Over nachos and margaritas, they watched a dubbed fantasy movie.
Each passing minute was more fun and relaxing than Mallory could ever have imagined having with a famous rock star.
On the TV, the dragon they’d thought was dead appeared in a flash above the clouds over the rolling credits, raising viewer hearts with his flight.
“Yes.” Mallory pumped her fist by her side.
“I knew you were rooting for the dragon.”
Mallory squirmed. “The humans deserved the dragon fire.”
Dylan chuckled. “It’s a French film. I expected an ambiguous ending.”
“Thank goodness they resisted that gallic instinct. If they dared end a dragon movie with a shrug, the viewers would storm the Bastille.” Mallory took a sip of her drink. “I know this should be red wine.” She took a second sip. The lime-sweet tang danced on her tongue. “The French would hate me if they knew I was visiting Paris for the first time and choosing to drink a margarita. Again.”
“Hate you? Nah. Ban you? Definitely.”
Mallory giggled and clinked her glass to his. “If I’m banned, you’re banned.”
“Oui, oui,” Dylan agreed.
“But really,” Mallory said, in a deeply serious tone. “Tomorrow, when I’m rested and refreshed, I’m going to appreciate French cuisine like a native connoisseur.”
Dylan’s eyes lit up. “Or at least get one of those street vendor crepes.”
“Put me down for that. Ham and brie, please.” Mallory stretched out her legs, admiring the rosy color on her toenails as they peeped out from under the hem of her pajama pants. That, along with her Viva La France sweatshirt, made her super comfy and ready for bed. She yawned. “Bedtime. I’m kicking you out now.” She nudged Dylan’s thigh with her manicured toes.
“You want me to buy you crepes for lunch or breakfast?” Dylan wrapped his hand around her ankle. “We don’t have a shoot until two.”
The weight of his hand warmed her skin. “ We? You have an incorrect grasp of the word we . You have a shoot tomorrow.” Using her unrestrained foot, Mallory gave him a second nudge.
Dylan draped her legs over his, laying his arm along her thighs.
The position was a turn-on. If she weren’t so tired…and more importantly, if he were straight, she’d make a pass at him. Not an option. He’d let her pick the movie; he deserved a treat. “Fine. Fine.” Mallory made a peace sign. “I’ll interpret for two of your events.” She leaned back, resting her weight on her palms. The cool hotel room air hit her midriff with the stretch. “Leave me to my beauty sleep. I need it more than you.”
Wait. Was he staring at her abs…with appreciation? Mallory raised back up to get a clear look at his expression.
He was in a guy group and twenty-eight, the same age as her, but her scan of social media said he didn’t date. All the images were of him hanging out with his band members.
Social media bandied about speculation about who was with who. Wasn’t he…weren’t they all…
“What?” Dylan asked. “What’s that expression for?”
Mallory shook off the thought.
Dylan’s gaze moved to her lips. “What?”
“I’m getting really straight, hetero energy from you right now.”
Dylan nodded. “That’s because I’m straight.”
Mallory blinked rapidly. Why wasn’t he off with some supermodel then? They were mandatory dates for rock stars. Then again, between her and Lorene, even the director had chosen her. Dylan must like women with dainty goddess hands that typed fast.
“What are you thinking about?”
Mallory sat up and put her fingers in front of her. “My pretty hands.”
Dylan took her right hand and placed it on his shoulder. His muscles were tense. No surprise, given his hectic schedule. Mallory lightly caressed up to his neck and down to his bicep, enjoying the strength of world-class muscles under her palm. Though the reason he’d placed her hand on him was still in question. She put her free hand on his other shoulder and squeezed. “What are you doing with me, Dylan?”
“Hitting on you.”
“Oh.” Mallory blinked. She didn’t mean to sound so unsophisticated. But she truly hadn’t seen this coming. If she had, she wouldn’t be wearing pajamas, a ponytail, and heavy French cream face moisturizer.
Dylan moved his mouth to her ear. “Is that an enthusiastic yes, ask me again tomorrow , or a no ?”
Mallory put her lips to his ear. “What’s the question, exactly?” Her question was more playful than sultry.
Dylan lowered his voice. “What do you want it to be?”
What did she want it to be? With that voice? She shivered. A date for tomorrow? A kiss? A sleepover? All of the above? What could he offer? That was the question. Dylan was a global rock star. Mallory lived in Texas; Dylan lived in California. Any relationship between them would be very temporary. That answer made sense and clicked in her brain. Temporary. This she understood. “You’re asking for a fling? In France.”