Chapter Forty-Four
RHYLAND
I spent Thursday kissing so much Texan ass I was worried my breath would smell like manure and smoked brisket.
Bruce Marshall had really worked me like his busiest call girl. There was a junket, a press release, a virtual conference, and a dinner with all the investors tied to the project. By the time I walked into my room, it was two in the morning. I sent Dylan a quick message to let her know I was still alive, albeit barely, before crashing.
Friday started at 6 a.m. First, I subjected myself to a ninety-minute yoga session with youth-obsessed tech moguls who bragged about being so flexible they could suck their own dicks. Then there was breakfast with the press, a brainstorming session with Hollywood PR gurus, a professional photo shoot of me and Bruce looking like we were reenacting Brokeback Mountain, then another dinner, and another party.
This one was different from the rest. Bruce had decided to clear out the entire backyard, all two acres, and had gone guns blazing on the Texan experience. There were mechanical riding bulls, long wooden tables laden with southern comfort food, cowboy-boot-shaped beer glasses, and donut stands. A live band took the makeshift stage. There was a lot of media present. Photographers, influencers, and bloggers roamed the place, taking pictures in the App-date picture booth, downloading a sample app, mingling, and having fun. I had to admit, he’d gone balls-out and garnered at least five pieces of traditional press for the company, not to mention endless social media posts and reels.
And the celebrities? He’d actually managed to pull in a few A-list actors, including the hottest actress on Hollywood’s current roster, Claire Larsen, who was helming the blockbuster Bratz movie. She was, in truth, every man’s fantasy. She looked like a cross between Megan Fox and Scarlett Johansson. And she was fast approaching me from across Bruce’s manicured lawn while the bastard was talking my ear off about ways to monetize the app.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Claire Larsen’s comin’ to talk to you,” Bruce murmured, mouth pressed against the rim of his beer bottle. She wore a white waistcoat with nothing underneath, the slit coming all the way down to her belly button. I’d seen more clothes on a Victoria’s Secret runway model.
“You mean us.” I knocked back the rest of my whiskey.
“No, you,” Bruce chuckled. “I’m an old, married man. You’re a young, handsome one. Ain’t no ring on your finger yet.”
“She’ll be wasting her breath,” I said tersely.
I meant it too. There was only one woman these days who could get my rocks off, and she was probably busy wrestling an almost-four-year-old into the bathtub right about now.
“Claire doesn’t know that.” Bruce patted my back. “And I paid her two hundred K to make an appearance here, so while I’m fixin’ to go to the courtyard, you keep her entertained and flirt up a storm, eh?” He winked.
“You want her entertained, you go flirt with her,” I offered dryly. “What the fuck happened to being a family man? To wanting to work with other respectable men?”
“Ain’t nothing disrespectful about smiling for the camera with a pretty woman on your arm,” Bruce maintained seriously. “I’ve done that plenty a times to push a product.”
“I love that you judged me for being a man-whore when all along, you were just as bad,” I said frankly.
“Now listen here, pretty boy.” Bruce dropped his relaxed grin in a nanosecond, clapping my shoulder and squeezing. “You be nice to this woman and have your picture taken with her so this event makes it to Page Six and the Daily Mail, or we’re gonna have a problem, you hear me?”
My lips curled in revulsion. I stared him down, ready to strangle him, but reminded myself that this time tomorrow, I’d be back home weaving colorful beads into strings and making Dylan pregame cocktails. The thought was strangely reassuring.
“Respectfully, Bruce, go fuck yourself.” I smiled cheerfully. “Next time, a ‘please don’t waste the photo op’ will be sufficient. Rest assured; I like money just as much as you do. Now go check on your cow.”
He made a face but screwed right off. Just in time for Claire Larsen to park herself in front of me, offering me a dazzling smile.
“Rhyland Coltridge. We finally meet.”
She stretched her hand for me to kiss. I lowered it between us and gave it a stern shake. My smile, however, was blissfully charming.
“Does my reputation precede me?”
“Oh yes. In fact, two years ago, I was on the brink of giving you a call.” She ran the fingertip of her index finger along my chest, and I smoothly changed positions to angle myself backward and escape her touch. I was a master flirter. But I also had no interest whatsoever in more than a few pictures in the Daily Mail crowning me as a new tech mogul.
“I went through a nasty breakup from Tim McFadden,” she explained. McFadden was a rock star. “I needed a PR facelift. A friend of mine who did Broadway at the time—Farah Singh—told me you did a great job for her when she needed a fake wedding date so her parents wouldn’t fix her up with the next-door neighbor.”
“I remember Farah.” It was hard to forget, when she’d paid me $20K for a sex-a-thon weekend in Santorini. “Good girl,” I mused.
“I can be a good girl too. Or bad. Depending on what you’re into.” She pouted sassily, her body almost flush with mine.
I felt the camera lights flashing across my face as the photographers started asking her questions.
“Claire, is this your new beau?”
“Larsen, is there anything you want to share with your fans?”
“Does this mean you and McFadden are done for good this time?”
“Are you planning to download the app? Is there hope for the average Joe?”
This was a trap, I realized. Claire had come here looking for a photo op too, to show her ex she’d moved on. With the industry’s biggest whore—me.
“What I’m into is my fiancée, whom I am tragically in love with.” I gave her a lazy grin. “So I’m afraid you’re both out of luck and options, but I’m happy to help you open an account on App-date if you need someone to tease McFadden with.”
While Claire’s face went from indulgent to furious and she stomped away from me, something depressing occurred to me. I wasn’t lying. I was one hundred percent in love with my Dylan. I needed her like air.
She was it. She was everything. The beginning, the end, the best part of my day. Losing her was my worst fear. She added dimension to my otherwise flat life. With her, I could tackle anything. Without her, nothing was worth doing.
And I loved her. Loved her, loved her, loved her.
I needed to tell her that.
Now.
No, not now. Now would be premature and awkward. I couldn’t tell her over the phone—she’d probably think I was drunk. I needed to tell her as soon as I got home tomorrow. And if she didn’t say it back…well, I had an entire lifetime to make her fall in love with me. I was a stubborn bastard too.
This time, it was three in the morning by the time I checked my phone.
Dylan: Are you still going to be able to make it tomorrow?
Dylan: Totally okay if not. I’ve still got time to ask Row to come with Cal and babysit Grav. Serafina is staying in the UK with the nanny.
Like hell he would. First of all, she was downplaying how much my being there meant to her, and I knew it. Second, I’d rather feast on my own bowels than look like a bad boyfriend in front of Row.
Rhyland: I’ll be there.
Dylan: You really don’t have to.
Rhyland: Why are you still up?
Dylan: I could ask you the same thing…
I peered down at the semi behind my jeans. Touché. The mere thought of her staying up so she could talk to me gave me a chub.
Dylan: I know this weekend is super important to you.
Rhyland: No. You’re super important to me.
She was typing, deleting. Typing, deleting.
Dylan: You’re just saying that bc you want your dick wet before I go to the gig.
I groaned. Dylan still struggled with words of affirmation when they weren’t directed at her kid. But I wasn’t gonna take the L. I’d wear her out. I’d make her as obsessed with me as I was with her.
Rhyland: And? Is it working?
Dylan: Yes.
Rhyland: Good night. See you tomorrow, Cosmos.
Dylan: See you tomorrow 3