Chapter 20 #2
It’s all I can do to keep a smirk off my face as I study the guy from afar, watching as he moves on to sniffing candles.
He’s alone this time, which either means the blonde slept in, or they’re not the item Lydia thought they were.
Or he’s here because he knows Lydia will be, and from the way he keeps glancing over here, I’d be willing to bet that’s exactly what it is. He’s here to make his move.
Poor guy doesn’t know I already made mine.
When the guy looks up from the candles and zeroes in on our table, I stand up from my folding chair, moving nonchalantly to stand by Lydia as Nancy chats with another passerby.
From the corner of my eye, I can see him making his way toward our booth, but I busy myself with one of the book parcels, studying the card on the front: Romance.
Regency. Downton Abbey, but make it spicy.
I have no fucking clue.
“Hey, Lyds.”
I can tell by the way Lydia bristles next to me that she hadn’t seen the guy approaching. But she keeps her cool, always poised and collected, greeting him in an even voice that betrays nothing. “Dylan. How’s it going?”
The guy dips his hands in his jeans pockets. “Oh, not bad at all. Beautiful day.”
“Mmhm.”
Dylan rifles through the books, and I honestly wonder if this guy’s ever read an entire book before. It’s pretty clear from the way he’s flipping through them he’s not even reading the cards on the front.
“So…” the douche drawls. “You got plans tonight? My entire weekend’s clear, and I thought we could… pick up where we left off.”
Seriously? Nancy’s still chatting with a visitor, but I’m standing right here—flipping through a brochure about the renovation, yet clearly listening. But Dylan’s looking up at Lydia with a gross, sultry sort of half smile on his face, and I’m pretty sure my presence hasn’t even registered.
Lydia barely even reacts, just straightens the packages that Dylan’s been digging through. She plucks the one he’s holding right out of his hands and places it on the top of the pile.
“Nah. No thanks,” she says.
“Aw, really?” Dylan’s tone is whining. “I’ve got that pizza oven, we could—”
I cut him off. “She said no.”
Next to me, I feel Lydia stiffen. For a split second, her eyes flit to mine, and then they’re back on the books she’s straightening that are already sufficiently straight.
Dylan shoots a grin at me, which is more like a flash of bared teeth. “Hey, uh. Hi. Do we know each other? Or…?”
“We haven’t met, if that’s what you’re asking,” I say. I give him a curt nod. “Will Holloway.”
Dylan runs his tongue along his top teeth, studying me. His eyes flick to the brochures fanned out on the table, and he nods, realization dawning. “Holloway, huh? You’re the architect.”
“That’s me.”
I cross my arms over my chest, watch Dylan set his jaw as he sizes me up. Although there’s no doubt this guy is fit—probably shoots hoops on the weekends or something—my arms are easily twice the size of his. Like, come on, bro. Do you even lift?
Lydia, who’s clearly picked up on this silent standoff, sighs. “Are you buying a book, Dylan? It’s for the fundraiser. Blind date with a book.”
“Interesting,” Dylan says, his attention back on Lydia. He studies the books in front of him.“How’s it work? Someone buys a book—and they get to go on a blind date with you?”
He laughs, and I can tell he actually thinks his joke is funny.
“Not exactly,” Lydia says.
She gives him a pitying kind of smile, but doesn’t take the bait, just explains the concept to him the same way she’s explained it to every other visitor.
“Well, you got any recommendations?” Dylan asks, now fingering the books in a way that makes me want to puke.
Lydia shrugs. “Depends what you’re in the mood for.”
Dylan looks straight at her, ignoring me. “What about something naughty?”
My blood goes cold. Is he for fucking real? Lydia’s blushing, clearing her throat, stammering something about how that’s not really appropriate, how maybe she ought to pass him off to Nancy. He says he’s kidding, that it was just a joke.
But when he reaches out and starts stroking her arm, I see fucking red.
Now I’m pissed.
I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, showing up every place Lydia goes and yanking her chain, all while spending the other days of the week with another woman he flaunts on social media. This guy is messed up—and he’s sorely mistaken.
Lydia Chandler is not a side piece. Lydia Chandler is the main fucking deal. And if this guy’s too stupid to realize that, I’m more than happy to spell it out for him.
“I’ve got a recommendation,” I say. I move to the other side of the table and start digging through the titles Lydia said were children’s books.
I draw one out, present it totally straight-faced to Dylan.
“Here. This one. Magic. Mummies. To go back in time, two friends need look no further than their backyard. Trust me, this one’s a gem. ”
Dylan only looks at the book, clearly doubtful but trying to play it cool. “I don’t know if that sounds like my kind of thing…”
I unwrap the parcel, surprised but glad when Lydia says nothing. I glance at the cover, trying to keep my lips from twitching, and hold it up to Dylan with a huge, opened-mouth grin of faux amazement.
“Oh, my god. Look at that—Magic Treehouse! Mummies in the goddamn morning. I know it’ll take you a while to get through, but you’re in for a treat.”
Beside me, Lydia stifles a snort. Dylan’s lip curls and he huffs out a breath. “Wow, real mature, man.”
I nod solemnly. “I know. It is. I didn’t read Magic Treehouse until I was nine, but I think you can handle it. I have faith in you.”
“Dude. What’s your problem?” Dylan’s neck is red. I can tell it’s taking everything he has not to snarl at me, and I absolutely love it.
I keep my face light, my expression stoic, as I plant my palms on the table and lean toward him.
“I’ll tell you what my problem is, Dylan.
My problem is that Lydia told you no. And if you think that’s your invitation to just try harder, then I better find you another book—because you’re even more of a child than I thought. ”
Dylan snorts, like he can’t believe I just said that to him. Lydia sighs, flicks her hand at the two of us, and goes to join Nancy, who’s still chatting obliviously away with a group of visitors. I keep my eyes trained on Dylan. I’m not kidding around here.
“Whatever, man,” Dylan says, scowling. “You’ve got issues.”
“Sure do. And you’re one of them. Now get walking.”
When he shoves his hands in his pockets and finally turns to go, stalking across the street without a single look behind him, I chance a glance at Lydia. She’s still talking with Nancy, sifting through the books, but she catches my look and gives me a roll of her dark eyes.
I’m really hoping I didn’t overstep and piss Lydia off—that she’s not going to accuse me of trying to play the hero again. But I was sick of watching that dickbag slink around, trying to get back what he gave up.
Because… god. Lydia can do so much better.