Chapter Twenty-One
Fourteen days till the show
The new Dylan Rogers was many things. An annoying flirt. A low-slung jeans devotee. A very, very good kisser.
And, apparently, president of the quinoa appreciation society. “You can use it in soups, or salads, or even in a breakfast bowl!” Dylan rinsed a handful of fine, brown grains in a sieve under the tap in Jazz’s school-bus-yellow kitchen. “Quinoa is life.”
“I know what quinoa is,” Vicky said witheringly, before reconsidering this. “Wait, what is it?”
“Quinoa,” Dylan spoke with utmost seriousness, “is a superfood.”
They were a few minutes into an afternoon cooking lesson. Dylan was helping Vicky learn to cook for herself.
Vicky frowned at the reddish-brown grains in the silver sieve. “A superfood? Like, mild-mannered reporter by day, masked avenger by night?”
Dylan chuckled, switching off the tap. Today’s muscle tee featured a Mexican wrestler called Cassandro. “Exactly. Fighting crime, and high blood pressure.”
“Be still my clogged arteries.” Vicky scooped some wet grains on her fingertip and popped them in her mouth.
“No, Vee!”
“Ugh.” Vicky flinched. “That’s disgusting.”
“They need to be cooked first,” Dylan reminded Vicky, handing her a wet paper towel. “Like pasta.”
“Pasta is one of the five food groups,” Vicky countered, scrubbing her tongue clean. “Quinoa is now part of my villain origin story.”
“Sorry, honey.” Dylan’s grin was lazy and amused. “Should’ve warned you.”
Honey. The word invoked a push-pull of delight and apprehension.
That she was finally hooking up with her high school obsession was like something out of a rom-com that other people enjoyed.
Of course this couldn’t be anything. Dylan was basically their generation’s answer to Leonardo DiCaprio.
They lived thousands of miles away, and Vicky would never do long distance.
Not that it would even be appropriate to bring up that sort of future-worry in what was clearly a summer fling.
In the effort to self-protect, Vicky made her voice haughty.
“Your seduction strategy needs work, Rogers.”
Dylan paused in surprise, knife poised above a tomato. “I’m not trying to seduce you, Vicky. I’m trying to make sure you make it to ninety.”
A little thrill fizzed through Vicky at Dylan’s mix of earnestness and charm. They seemed to be taking Vicky’s health seriously. She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
Dylan put the knife down, their eyes not leaving Vicky’s own. “I don’t know. I guess I have a crush on you, Vicky.”
The words landed like a bomb in her belly, making Vicky falter, suck in a breath.
Goddamnit. Vicky had no idea if Dylan was being serious or flirtatious or just trying to get a rise out of her, something they could pretty much give a masterclass on.
It was a struggle to toss off a pithy reply.
“Don’t you mean you still have a crush on me? ”
Dylan didn’t flinch. A tiny smile kicked up the left side of their mouth. “Okay. I still have a crush on you.”
Vicky felt herself getting wound up, huffing out a petulant breath. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rogers. We’re too old to have crushes.”
“Oh really?” Dylan slunk forward, each step increasing the temperature in the kitchen, speaking low and deliberate. “So the fact that we keep mauling each other like hungry dogs—that’s just…?”
“Biology,” Vicky managed, her head getting swimmy at Dylan’s ever-closer presence. At the way their gaze was burning a hole right in her heart. “Dumb—physical—need.”
Dylan was close enough to scoop Vicky around the waist and pull her close, “For a lawyer, you’re a terrible liar.”
“For a foodie,” Vicky panted, “your quinoa is shit.”
With a growl, Dylan pressed their mouth to the sensitive skin of Vicky’s neck. The heat of their breath, the touch of their tongue, made Vicky woozy. She groaned, her head falling back as Dylan’s lips traced down to her collarbone. Her words came in gasps. “This—doesn’t mean—anything.”
Dylan paused, breathless, mouth wet. “Huh?”
“This”—Vicky sawed the air between them—“doesn’t mean anything.”
Dylan cocked their head, a flop of dark brown hair sliding over their annoyingly dreamy green eyes. Their mouth twisted into an amused smirk. “Oh, Vicky. Vicky, Vicky, Vicky.”
“What?” Vicky snapped, even as she reached greedily for Dylan’s belt loops.
“Just admit it, babe,” Dylan drawled. “You’re already falling in love with me.”
Vicky’s breath stuttered. Her heart missed its next beat.
She gave a brittle laugh. “Uh, no! I’m not!
I’m just taking advantage of your proximity by taking advantage of you.
I have needs. You’re meeting those needs.
This isn’t emotional and I’m definitely not falling in love with you, you delusional narcissist! ”
“Really?” Dylan grinned, twisting out of Vicky’s grasp to grab a toothpick from the canister that Jazz kept on the counter, popping it between their teeth. “Allow me to present evidence to the contrary, your honor.”
Her own stupid fault for putting a stop to things. Vicky rolled her eyes. “What are you talking about, Rogers?”
“I’m saying you have feelings for me and I have enough evidence to go to trial.”
“Then I’ll see you in court!” Always fun to have a reason to say that. Vicky hopped up onto the kitchen counter and waved her hand, judicious. “Court is now in session. The defense may proceed.”
Hands behind their back, Dylan assumed a mock-serious stance. “Madame Judge—”
“Just ‘your honor,’ counsel.” Vicky arched her brow. “I will not have my courtroom made a mockery and, in this case more than most, language matters. Especially as I appear to be both the judge,” Vicky said with a frown, “and the defendant.”
“We live in strange times. Your Honor,” Dylan amended. “The defendant, Ms. Vicky Fang, claims that the very satisfying and undeniably hot physical relationship between her and myself, quote, doesn’t mean anything and that she isn’t, quote, falling in love with me.”
“Sounds like a practical woman who understands her own mind.”
“This may be true,” Dylan allowed, beginning to pace Jazz’s yellow kitchen.
“But consider this: midway through a mini-mingle dance party, Vicky was the one who dragged me into the kitchen pantry, stating that she’d been, and again I quote, waiting all night to jump my bones.
She then stuck her alarmingly strong tongue into my mouth, in a manner not unlike this.
” Dylan picked up a nearby ketchup bottle and jar of mustard.
“The defendant’s alleged embrace!” they declared, play-acting the condiments getting it on.
“In this very kitchen, on the night in question!”
Vicky’s pulse sped at the memory of exactly how spicy things had gotten while backed against the spice rack.
If sex was defined by an orgasm with another person, then technically, she’d fucked in that pantry.
“Is this a courtroom or a cooking show?” Vicky quipped.
“Everyone knows kitchen pantries are highly erotic locations, and this seems circumstantial at best and not at all related to your claims.”
“Your honor, I contend that this encounter was no one-off, but one of several passionate exchanges.” Dylan gave Vicky a crooked grin that made her heart send up a flare.
“Last week, the defendant cornered me in the green room, locked the door, and told me in a tone I’d describe as breathless that she couldn’t stop thinking about—and my apologies to the court for vulgarity—my ass in those jeans. ”
Vicky narrowed her eyes even as a blush flared in her cheeks. “And is it true you encouraged said behavior by wearing those jeans?”
“I plead the Fifth.” Dylan smiled blithely, before continuing. “Furthermore, the defendant then placed my hands on her very beautiful breasts and asked me if I liked that.”
Vicky pressed her lips together. Things had also gotten a bit out of hand in the green room. “And, um, how did you respond?”
“In the affirmative.” Dylan cocked a brow. “Quite enthusiastically, if I recall.”
Heat built between Vicky’s thighs. She squirmed on the kitchen counter, resisting the twin urge to giggle and moan. “Objection. Counsel is getting flirty.” Vicky cleared her throat. “This is all very entertaining, but I fail to see the evidence you claim you have.”
“Then, the other night, after Lola went to bed and Annie went home, leaving Victoria and I to watch the original Scream—”
“The best Scream.”
“Agreed. We ended up, I believe the technical term is humping, on the couch. Over the course of that evening, and, for full disclosure, a bottle of very good wine, the defendant admitted, and I quote”—Dylan paused for effect, raising a finger—“ ‘You’re annoyingly hot.’ ” They ticked off their fingers.
“Exhibit B: ‘sort of funny.’ Exhibit C: ‘a bit impressive.’ And, dare I say, Exhibit D: ‘a total freaking catch.’ All of this is conclusive proof that the defendant is having feelings. Feelings, Your Honor, of love.” Dylan let out a breath, bowing slightly. “I rest my case.”
It was a struggle to maintain composure.
It was true that things had heated up very quickly with Dylan.
But love? That wasn’t a good idea. Vicky reminded herself for the one-millionth time that Dylan was a fuck boy.
A player, a clit tease, Don fricking Juan.
They probably had a whole bed full of girls waiting for them back in L.A.
Dylan was just trying to get under her skin, when Vicky would prefer they get into her pants. Love could not be in the fine print.
For that, and for a much more embarrassing reason that Vicky would prefer not to think about. A reason that very few people in her life even knew about. Not even her sisters.
Vicky refused to think about that. She didn’t want to waste any more of their time off not getting off.