Page 64 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

Dylan stared at her. His stomach growled. His cock throbbed. He didn’t know whether to stuff his face full of toast—the first thing past his lips aside from Monet since landing in America—or toss the plate aside and devour Monet instead.

The decision was made by the woman herself. She swallowed her mouthful, grinned at him and took another bite.

Dylan’s stomach growled again and, unable to resist any longer, he grabbed his own slice and tore into it.

Thirty minutes later, several slices of Vegemite toast consumed and an in-depth discussion about who was the better singer-song writer, Nick Blackthorne or Garth Brooks, close to being resolved, he slumped back on the sofa and closed his eyes.

“You’re tired?”

He smiled, giving his stomach a lazy scratch. “Absolutely buggered.”

The sofa shifted beneath him a little and he forced open one eye, watching Monet rise to her feet. “I’m going to call the airline. See if we can track down your luggage. Then call you a taxi. Think you can stay awake while I do that?”

He didn’t want to stop looking at her. She was beautiful and sensual and she made him feel wonderful, but damn, he reallywasbuggered. “Sure,” he said. Or maybe he mumbled. “Just let me close my eyes for five minutes and I’ll be right as rain.”

Monet smiled. “Of course you will.” She reached down and retrieved his plate. A distant part of Dylan’s mind told him she’d caught it before it slipped from his fingers. Another part told him both eyes were closed again.

“Five minutes,” he reiterated, threading his hands behind his head. “We can finish our Blackthorne and Brooks debate and then move onto something important, like crocodiles versus alligators.”

Monet laughter chased him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Five minutes later, Dylan opened his eyes and discovered it had been much longer than five minutes.

The apartment was shrouded in shadows, four squat candles—almost melted down to puddles on a wide silver tray—the only source of light. He rubbed at his face, dragged his hands through his hair and squinted about himself. His body clock told him it was evening back home. The relative quiet in Monet’s apartment told him his body clock knew shit on this side of the globe.

So much for five minutes, Sullivan.

A soft noise sounded to his right and he swung his head toward it, a slow breath slipping past his lips at what he saw.

Monet lay asleep on the cushions beside him, her knees tucked up to her stomach, her hands tucked under her head, her hair a glorious mass of waves tumbling over her face.

Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

She was. And nothing like his normal type.

He watched her sleep for a long moment, letting his gaze roam. Hunter always gave him shit about the kind of girl Dylan dated. Blonde, perky. Perhaps a little ditzy. Pneumatic. Monet was none of those and that fact stirred something deep inside him.

Love is blind, his dad used to say.Look at me and your mum. I had a thing for tall, skinny redheads with skin the color of cream. Your mum’s five foot three tall, half that wide with curves to boot and I don’t think the night sky gets darker than her hair.

Dylan drew another slow breath. This wasn’t love. It couldn’t be. Not this quick. But it was…something. Something he hadn’t expected.

Even during the three months since meeting Annie, he’d never felt like this. Annie, whom he’d met on an online dating website he’d joined as a lark basically to piss off Hunter. Annie, whom he’d chatted with damn near every day since. She was warm and lovely and smart and quick-witted. He’d called her his soul mate when Hunter had questioned his sanity, but now, sitting here in the dark, watching Monet sleep, he knew his soul had been deluded. Annie was amazing, but she didn’t make him feel like this. This…something.

And you’re going to do what about it, Dylan?

He didn’t know. But he did know one thing. He didn’t want to fly back to Australia yet. He had seven days before his return flight. Seven days to see if what he felt for Monet Carmichael was anything but lust.

Or should he get his arse on the next flight home, luggage be damned?

Shifting off the sofa with as little fuss as possible, he crossed to the massive window overlooking Central Park. Even at this hour of the morning New York was a hive of activity. People moved along the sidewalk below, lovers, joggers, tourists. The trees, covered in leaves the color of burnished copper and draped with strings of fairy lights, leant the view a magical quality. Dylan took it all in, its beauty unlike any he was used to.

That’s because you’re the Down Under Wonder, remember? When was the last time you saw deciduous trees, let alone ones covered in lights? The only time the trees lose their leaves back on Farpoint is in drought.

He could appreciate the beauty of this place. It was stunning. And yet, at the same time, it made him feel…

Lost.

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