Page 7 of Saving the Rockstar

"You take that back," Dylan gasped. "My sexual prowess knows no bounds. I couldpullin this restaurant if I wanted to."

"Please don't," I groaned, plucking the courtesy bread basket out of his reach before he could start suggestively tonguing a baguette or something. "I already have a headache.”

"You're no fun," he grumbled. "Twenty-five years old and you're already shaking your cane at the youths, shouting at us to get off your lawn."

"Excuse you, I'll be twenty-four for another six weeks," I said primly, tearing off a hunk of sourdough and pointing it at him for emphasis. "And this particular youth will stay on my damn lawn as long as he keeps up the public reenactments of softcore porn cinema."

"Prude," Dylan sniffed, but I could see the way his lips were twitching, his eyes sparkling with barely restrained mirth in the low lighting.

I felt myself sinking deeper into the plush leather, a lazy smile tugging at the corner of my mouth as I watched Dylan peruse the cocktail menu with an intense focus.

Our waiter reappeared with our wine in tow, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his cut-glass cheekbones.

"YourChâteau Margaux, sirs," he said, brandishing the bottle like a sacred relic as he glanced between us. "Would you like to taste it before I pour?"

"Yes, please," I said, not missing the way Dylan's eyebrows shot up to his hairline at the unexpected display of manners.

Dylan took an obnoxiously loud slurp, smacking his lips with enthusiasm.

"Yes, very winey," he declared, swirling it like he was at a frat party. "Strong notes of grape, with an undertone of foot."

The waiter blinked again, looking torn between professional obligation and the growing suspicion that we were making fun of him. I kicked Dylan again in warning, smiling tightly up at our increasingly harassed server.

"It's perfect, thank you," I said, waiting until he'd topped off our glasses and departed with a nod to turn my glare on my unrepentant best friend.

"Foot?" I hissed. "Really?"

"What?" He grinned with shameless glee. "I calls 'em like I smells 'em."

I just shook my head, taking a fortifying sip of my own wine as I settled back in my chair, content to let him ramble himself out while we waited for our food. God knew I didn't have the energy to try and reel him in, not after the emotional sucker punch that had been my little run-in with thetall, blond, and chiseledbodyguard two days ago.

As if summoned by my traitorous thoughts, I could still feel the phantom heat of his touch on my shoulders, the rasp of his stubble against my ear as he'd murmured low and soothing.

Across the table, Dylan was jabbering away about something. I made a vague noise of agreement every time he paused for breath. He'd circle back around to his original point eventually, or forget he had one to begin with. That was the beauty of Dylan - for all his manic energy and shifting moods, his thought process was as consistent as the tides.

But I should’ve known better than to underestimate his powers of perception - or his complete lack of boundaries when it came to calling me on my bullshit.

"So," he said, "you gonna tell me what's got you wound tighter than a woman's cooch at a cucumber stall?"

I choked a little on my sip of wine, glaring at him over the rim of my glass. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He pointed an accusing finger at me, eyes narrowing. "You've been moping harder than usual since we left the venue that night. Spill, or I'm going to start freestyle rapping about your love life again."

I groaned, thunking my head back against the leather headrest. "Christ, anything but that. I beg you."

"Then start talking," he singsonged, propping his chin on his fist with a smile. "Tell me all about whatever dark and sexy mishaps befell you in the shadows of the venue."

I flipped him off halfheartedly, but I could already feel my resolve crumbling. He was like a dog with a bone when he caught the scent of drama, and I knew from experience he'd harp on it all night if I didn't give him something to gnaw on.

So with a weary sigh, I launched into the tale. To his credit, Dylan managed to limit his commentary to the occasional gasp or low whistle, though I could practically see him vibrating with the effort to keep his trap shut.

It wasn't until I got to the part where I'd essentially insulted Jared's manhood and professionalism in one fell swoop that he finally cracked, letting out a bark of laughter loud enough to startle the couple at the next table.

"Wait," he wheezed, dabbing at his eyes with his napkin. "Let me get this straight. This smoking hottie of a rent-a-cop literally swept you into his beefy arms and murmured sweet nothings in your ear-"

"He did not!"

"-and your response was to verbally castrate him and storm off like an extra on Gossip Girl?" Dylan shook his head, a look of disappointment on his elfish face. "Oh darling. I have failed you as a wingman."

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