Page 11 of Dirty Like Dylan

The truth was, after my last few romantic catastrophes, I’d actually become so averse to getting close to men, I wasn’t sure I could even bear the idea of liking someone enough to actually date him—knowing he was just gonna dump me. Because that part was definitely inevitable.

They always dumped me.

Because I totally sucked at love.

Not that I was a loser or something. I wasn’t stupid or naive or unlovable. I just made bad, bad decisions when it came to men.

I was romantically challenged.

But I was an intelligent woman (or so I kept telling myself). I could learn from my mistakes.

So I dismissed that ridiculous eye-contact-lightning-bolt thing and the whims of my over-eager womb and just kept doing my job. Because at my job, I definitely did not suck.

I rocked at it, actually.

I captured a few deliciously-suggestive shots of the oil girl, her brow creased in concentration, as she smoothed oil over Dylan’s godlike chest and his rippling abs with her bare hand. All the while, he kept right on chatting with Liv, oblivious. The girl actually bit her lip, and I got an amazing shot of it. I giggled a little, actually, amusing myself.

“Bet you’re thinking, ‘Why didn’t I get that job?’” a gruff voice muttered beside me, startling me out from behind the camera.

It was Ashley Player.

I didn’t respond.

I definitely didn’t feel lightning bolts to my uterus when he glared at me. But I did feel… something. The guy put me on edge. He had those piercing, penetrating blue eyes, and there was so much derision in them as he stared me down, it almost hurt.

Which was ridiculous, since I didn’t even know him.

He didn’t know me, either. But for some reason, he’d already made up his mind to despise me.

For some other reason that I could not fathom, he was standing too close to me. Like right beside me. And some stubborn, jaded part of me refused to give him the satisfaction of backing away or running scared.

So I stood my ground.

He crossed his toned arms over his chest and finally turned his attention away from me, toward Dylan. He steadfastly ignored me, actually, as we stood here, together, in the shadows beyond the lights. And he looked so irritatingly beautiful, with his edgy dark hair and his angsty, angry-at-the-world expression… It shouldn’t have mattered to me, but honestly, it was annoying as hell that he was so hot.

Because it made me want to stare at him—like I was doing right now—even though I was pretty sure I already hated him.

So instead, I ignored him right back.

I kept right on photographing Dylan Cope.

The entire time, Ashley Player stayed right beside me. He never looked at me. Or at least, I never caught him looking at me.

But there was no doubt in my mind: he was keeping an eye on me.

Chapter Three

Dylan

As the cameras started rolling, I played along to “Get Made.” Obviously, it was fucking loud. But to her credit, the photographer at the side of the stage didn’t flinch.

She also didn’t seem to be aware that anyone in the room existed besides me.

After we’d run through several takes, I saw Liv’s assistant hand her some work boots and a pair of socks. I watched her, amused, as she grudgingly put them on, while pointedly ignoring Ash, who was standing beside her. He’d been standing beside her the entire time.

Right beside her.

Interesting.

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