Chapter 5
MAX
I didn’t know if it was the trip down memory lane or the motion of the plane, but Dylan looked like he was about to puke. Either way, I shut up and let him be. The writer in me was itching to ask more questions, but I reined myself in. We’d have plenty of time to talk when we arrived in France.
Not today. My concentration was off, flitting in and out of my characters’ voices and always coming back to the man sitting across from me.
Dylan had headphones on as he read his book, and different expressions drifted over his face like a kaleidoscope of emotion.
I was still a bit uneasy traveling in such close proximity, but it didn’t feel as awkward as I’d dreaded.
I was also relieved that he wasn’t a diva.
Maybe because he’d been away from the Hollywood life for a while now?
Or maybe he was acting. Would he feed me lines like one of his characters?
It got me thinking about the kinds of masks Dylan wore.
“Thinking hard over there? Is that how you got so many degrees?” Dylan’s resonant voice shook me from my wayward thoughts.
I saved the changes on my manuscript and closed the laptop, turning to face him.
The overhead lights captured every angle of his face.
The only soft edge was his mouth, turned upward in a crooked grin that was far too appealing.
“I always knew I wanted to be a professor, like my dad. I loved everything about school, and I studied hard. And if you want to teach at a certain level, you need to complete the required degrees,” I replied.
“I barely managed to finish one, never mind three.” Dylan shook his head as he took off his headphones. “You’re gonna be bored as fuck working with me. I can’t offer the high-level conversation you’re used to.”
“You seem to be holding your own.”
“Well, I am an actor. Maybe if I try real hard, I can pretend to be smart,” he chuckled.
Dylan’s joke didn’t sit right, and a peculiar ache settled in my chest. It was rare for anyone except my ex to get under my skin.
“You don’t need to pretend. And my degrees don’t tell the entire story of who I am. Just a part.”
“And what’s the best part?” Dylan’s eyes glowed with a curious light.
“My daughter, no question. Blake is my reason for being.” When I mentioned her name, any lingering unease was forgotten.
“Was your separation difficult for her?” Dylan asked and then he pulled back. “I’m sorry, Max. That’s none of my business. I don’t know why I asked that.” He went to grab his headphones again.
“It’s all right, Dylan. You’ll be more comfortable talking about yourself if you learn things about me.
And I think it’s only fair.” I ran a hand over my hair and down my neck, grabbing hold there and squeezing the tense muscles.
“The separation happened when Blake was five, and the divorce came a year later. Dante spends most of his time on his catering business. and parenting comes second. Blake took a while to get adjusted when we split, but for her age, she handled it well. Dante and I were so contentious at the end that she was probably relieved. She’s smart and sensitive.
She loves him, but she’s also aware of his parenting style versus mine.
Don’t get me wrong, he loves her, it’s just… ”
“He’s the center.” Dylan repeated the words I’d echoed earlier.
“Yes. I foolishly thought a child would make our bond closer. Unfortunately, it didn’t work out that way. He was angry that most of my time and attention was focused on her needs. To be fair, he was brought up by nannies and he assumed I’d want to do the same with our child.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No way. I didn’t want to be a hands-off parent.
I was the one waking up in the middle of the night when she was a baby.
I took care of her when she was sick. Every step, every game, every recital, I wanted to experience it all.
” I sighed. “We adopted her when she was eleven months old. As soon as I held her in my arms, there was nowhere else I wanted to be. It’s like my whole life was waiting for that one joyous moment. ”
“That’s so beautiful,” Dylan whispered, and I caught a look of wistfulness in his eyes that hit me full force. He looked down and picked at a hole in his threadbare jeans. “And now I see why you’re a writer. You’re so eloquent.”
To my horror and embarrassment, my face heated. Fuck, I never blushed. I was always calm and collected. Too often unaffected.
“My writing style is best described as descriptive and well-plotted, but formal. I’m pretty sure you felt the same about me, given your reaction this morning.”
Now it was Dylan’s turn to blush. It looked perfect on him, drawing attention to those sculpted cheekbones dusted with stubble.
“I’ll admit I wasn’t sure if you and I were going to be a good match as partners. I mean, work partners. Not the other kind.”
Dylan’s fumble was charming, but I resisted replying. Friendly was fine but a flirty response was walking a dangerous line. Dylan’s my client , I reminded myself.
“It’s been a while since I collaborated on a project, so you’ll need to be patient with me,” I confessed.
I felt the buzz of synergy building between us, and I hoped it was the beginning of trust that would serve the book well.
“Same goes for me. But you’re an experienced teacher, so I figure I’m in good hands,” Dylan replied, stretching out his long legs.
His words were innocent, but they conjured up a very personal type of tutorial. Heated palms sliding against smooth skin, sharp bones, and sinewy muscles... I must be exhausted, fantasizing about someone I had no business wanting.
Unsettled by my train of thought, I closed my eyes. Encouraging my body to calm, I focused on the steady hum of the plane. The white noise was soothing, and I gradually felt my body relax into the seat.
Sad green eyes were the last thing I saw before sleep finally claimed me.
“Max, you need to wake up. We’ll be starting our descent in twenty minutes.”
The flight. My eyes popped open to find Annie staring at me. I searched the cabin, but there was no sign of Dylan.
“Where’s Dylan?” I croaked out, my voice hoarse from sleep and dry air. Reaching for my glasses on the nearby table, I perched them on my nose and sat up.
“He’s in the washroom. Can I get you an espresso or tea?”
“Espresso please, with lots of sugar.”
“Coming right up.”
I turned to the window beside me and pulled up the shade, the piercing sunlight proving to be a better wakeup call than any source of caffeine. I ran a hand over my stubbled face but decided to forego a shave.
I heard the bathroom door open behind me, but I kept staring out at the sky. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face Dylan given the way my mind had wandered before I fell asleep last night. My writer’s brain was way too overactive at times. Curiously shy, my eyes remained fixed on the blue horizon.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” Dylan said as he sat down across from me. Finally, I glanced at him and noticed that he’d changed into black jeans and a dark green t-shirt. As my eyes roamed up to his face, I noted the dark circles and bloodshot eyes. He looked like he’d barely slept at all.
Even still, Dylan was more blinding than the sun outside my window. His presence made my lungs seize, like I was suddenly starved for oxygen. Was I having a panic attack? Whatever it was, I better get the fuck over it.
“Thanks,” I mumbled as I stood up and headed for the washroom.
After taking care of business, I found a spare toothbrush in the lower cabinet. A few minutes later and feeling refreshed, I wandered back out to my seat and sat down as Annie returned with two steaming cups of coffee.
“We’ll be starting our descent in about twenty minutes. Please put your seatbelt on. I’ll be back in ten to collect your dishes.”
“Thanks, Annie,” I said as I took a sip of my espresso.
“Sleep well?” Dylan asked.
“Not bad, but my neck aches. Serves me right for falling asleep in my seat instead of making use of the couch nearby or the bed at the back of the plane.”
Dylan nodded. “I stretched out on the bed for a while, but sleeping on planes is next to impossible for me. I studied my script and then I started reading a new book, so the night wasn’t a total loss.”
“What are you reading?”
Dylan’s face flushed. “ Nightfall .”
Surprise made my body jolt. Dylan was reading one of my books?
“Warren told me about your pen name. So far, I’m really enjoying it. Still haven’t figured out whodunit yet.”
“I’m flattered. And if you figure it out before the halfway mark, let me know. I’ll make sure to throw in more misdirection in my next one.”
“I love the tension between the closeted police investigator and the out and proud lawyer he’s constantly butting heads with. It’s totally gripping.”
“Could you please write that down? Because a review of my book by The Dylan Aylmer would probably gain me a whole new legion of fans,” I teased, and Dylan rolled his eyes.
The crackle of the speaker overhead interrupted any further conversation. “Good morning and bonjour. We’re starting our descent into the beautiful city of Nice. It will be sunny today, with clear skies, low winds, and a high of 87 degrees. Enjoy the rest of the flight.”
I glanced at the rolling green hills and miles of sandy coastline below.
Buildings dotted the landscape, getting bigger and more condensed the closer we came to the airport.
The sea, in contrast, was a brilliant blue expanse.
An unbidden excitement began to rise inside me.
I got the same giddy feeling when I started working on a manuscript or taught a new class.
Even though I knew this trip was work, it didn’t feel like it. Not yet.
Annie returned to clear our dishes. Once she was gone, the plane started to dip and sway. I turned to find Dylan with a death grip on the arms of his chair, his legs tense and his posture rigid.
“Are you okay?” I asked gently.
All I got in return was a shake of his head. He was mumbling something under his breath. A prayer maybe? A meditation? Whatever it was, he was repeating it over and over, wholly focused on the ceiling, taking deep breaths.
“If you say plane travel is safer than being in a car, I will make you write out my entire book by hand. In ink,” he bit out.
I chuckled. “Statistically speaking, plane travel…”
“Stop. Don’t care.”
I reached out and touched his arm gently, but he jolted.
He wasn’t the only one who felt a shock. I just hid it better.
“Take my hand,” I said as I held my hand open, offering the only comfort I could give.
It was out of character for me to offer such a gesture to anyone except my daughter, never mind a man I barely knew.
But for whatever reason, Dylan blew past my reserves like a hot knife through butter.
Slowly, reluctantly, he slid his hand in mine.
The plane dipped again, faster, harder, and my stomach along with it.
Dylan’s grip was fierce, just short of painful, but I didn’t mind.
I held on just as tightly.