Page 75 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

“You don’t have SpongeBob Down Under? Oh my God, you poor things.”

Dylan shrugged. “We don’t have SpongeBob on Farpoint. Who knows about the rest of Australia.”

“When we get back home I’m introducing you to SpongeBob. There’s bound to be an episode playing on Nick. You’ll love him. Trust me.”

Prickling heat razed over the back of Dylan’s neck. Monet’s statement, despite its innocence, unsettled him. Home. Love. Trust. All three things he couldn’t stop thinking about when it came to her.

The third was beyond doubt for him. He trusted her. It was stupid, given he’d only known her four and a half days, but he did. The first confused the hell out of him. Home. New York wasn’t his home, but he couldn’t imagine leaving Monet.

As for the second…

Love.

The second scared the shit out of him because he knew he was falling in love with her. Knew it as well as he knew when a storm was going to hit back home. Knew it as well as he knew a prize bull. It wasn’t just his heart telling him. It was his gut. His soul. His whole body.

Heknew.

What he didn’t know was what he was going to do about it.

“I thought we were cooking dinner when we got home,” he said.

Fuck a duck, Sullivan. Evenyou’reusing the word home.

Monet grinned, leaning into him a little, her thighs brushing his, her breasts pressing to his chest. “No,you’recooking dinner, remember? I’m going to sit back with a glass of wine and watch you work your magic.”

Dylan laughed. “Ah, yes. My magic. Are you sure it’s not sacrilegious not to eat turkey?”

Somehow or another, Monet had convinced him to cook. Possibly because she hadn’t lied when she’d told him Vegemite on toast was her specialty, possibly because Dylan was missing good home-cooked tucker. Tonight’s menu included roast lamb, which—based on how tricky it had been tofinda leg of lamb in New York—was so far removed from normal Thanksgiving fare, Dylan wondered if he was going to be booted out of the country.

Monet’s giggle was almost lost in the raucous crowd around them. Another cartoon behemoth was floating past, one Dylan recognized. Kermit the Frog. “It’s not sacrilegious. A long as we share with each other what we’re thankful for, we’ll be fine.”

A thick lump filled Dylan’s throat. He knew what he was thankful for. Did he dare share it with Monet later that evening?

The rest of the parade went by in a blur of massive balloons dragging laughing people, marching bands playing toe-tapping music, acrobats doing amazing feats and spectators cheering them all on. By the time the last of the procession passed, Dylan was sharply aware of two things. The air was bitingly cold, blowing about in gusting blasts from dark clouds overhead. And Monet wasn’t just standing beside him, but leaning into him, her arms wrapped around his body, her cheek pressed to his chest.

No, three things. He was aware ofthreethings.

His arms were wrapped around her as well.

He had no idea when it had happened, but sometime between Kermit the Frog and Woody Woodpecker, his arms had slid around Monet’s waist and he was holding her exactly the way he wanted to, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if she was the only thing thatmatteredin the world.

All around them New York thrummed with the happiness of Thanksgiving and, before he could stop himself, Dylan lowered his head to Monet’s smiling mouth and kissed her.

Because it wasn’tas ifit were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Itwasthe most natural. It was what a man did with the woman he loved.

And he loved her. Fuck a duck, he loved her.

Monet didn’t want to stop kissing him. What she wanted to do was stand there forever, in Dylan’s strong arms, against his tall, lean body and die in the pleasure of his lips on hers. It wasn’t just that she liked being kissed by him—whoa, did she like being kissed by him—it was that when he was kissing her, nothing else mattered in the world. Not the people gaping at them as they walked past, not the horse-mounted cops who would likely come by and arrest them for public indecency, not the fact he was from Australia and she was from New York and she didn’t have enough frequent flier miles to visit him every damn day.

Not even the very real fact he was here for her best friend.

Annie can’t have him. He’s mine.

The thought shot through her pleasure-fogged head, aggressive and petulant.

And wrong.

Dylanwasn’thers. One day the stars would finally align and he and Annie would actually manage to speak to each other, his luggage would show up and he would be on a plane flying back to Australia. Away from Monet.

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