Page 29 of Dirty Like Dylan

“How much does that guy charge?” Dylan turned to me. “You know, that friend of Summer’s. The photographer you guys hired on that Penny Pushers shoot last year.”

“We hired him,” I said, glaring at him a little, “because we had pro BMX guys doing tricks with us and he works with those guys a lot. I think he charges like three grand a day for his commercial stuff—”

“So three grand it is.”

Amber’s mouth, which was open, snapped shut. She pressed her lips together.

“Sound good?” Dylan was already heading to the fridge for another bottle of Prosecco.

Yeah. It sounded good. I was gonna go out on a limb and guess that a three-grand day rate was more than she’d expected.

“Okay,” she said, still looking a little bewildered.

“Unless you think the rate should be higher,” he said.

“Um. No. That rate is fair.”

“Great. Then we can celebrate your new job.” Dylan ripped off the foil and cracked open the bottle, topping up her glass with fresh bubbly.

“Well… okay then.” She glanced at me, quickly, then lifted her glass, touching it to Dylan’s. “Thank you. I look forward to working with you.”

Jesus. Did she really think that’s all this was? A job offer?

How fucking naive was this girl?

Dylan looked at me, his wine glass still out, but I turned away, swiping up some dishes and heading for the sink.

“Oh!” Amber exclaimed. “I wasn’t finished with that—”

“Sorry,” I said, dumping her half-eaten dinner in the sink along with mine. “Thought you were done.” Then I stalked out like a prick, my skin practically crawling with irritation.

No doubt about it: I was allergic to the girl.

Dylan just chuckled in my wake. I rarely failed to entertain the guy. Usually the more surly I got, the more hilarious he found me.

The best friends were like that. Loved you, no matter what an asshole you were.

“I should probably stop drinking,” I heard Amber say, just as she probably took another sip. I could already hear Dylan fixing her another plate. “You know, I’ll want to get started early. Like sunrise-early, so I can get the early morning light.”

“I’ll be up,” Dylan said, as if he’d ever been up at the ass-crack of dawn—unless he was still up from the night before.

I paused on my way out to the garage. I could see them through the cutout in the kitchen wall. Her, sitting up on her bar stool, back straight, cheeks flushed. And him, coy as a fucking rattlesnake, pretending not to notice how fucking pretty she was.

“I’ll maybe start downstairs,” she said, her keen green eyes gazing around. “Those big windows onto the back yard should let in gorgeous morning light…”

“I’ll leave the door open,” he said, casually. “You can let yourself in if I’m in the shower. I’ll try to remember not to take a morning swim.”

“Oh.” Cute, batting eyelashes. “Why?”

“Because…” Killer, coy grin. “I like to swim naked.”

“Oh!” She giggled, the Prosecco hitting her the way it was meant to, and Dylan sipped his wine. He tucked his hair behind his ear in that smooth way he did that made chicks cream.

I ground my fucking teeth and slammed out to the garage.

There was no possible way on Earth those two weren’t fucking tonight.

Whatever.

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