Page 59 of Wilder Love
“It’s mine.”
“Are you sure your job is legal?”
He laughed but didn’t answer as I followed him into the house and across the terracotta-tiled floor of the laundry room through a door to his kitchen—granite countertops, glossy white cupboards, and stainless-steel appliances without a smudge or fingerprint greeted me. Slack-jawed, I wandered through the rooms, all dark hardwood floors and clean white walls with black gothic-looking wrought-iron chandeliers hanging from wood-beamed ceilings. Black sofas, a dark wood coffee table and a plush Moroccan rug rounded out the décor and a flat-screen TV spanned the wall across from the sofas.
My jaw dropped at the view from the French doors that opened on to a Moroccan patio with mosaic black-and-blue tiles, a fire pit, and daybeds leading to a crystal blue swimming pool. The hilltops, canyon, and an ocean view in the distance provided the backdrop. “Dylan…” I turned to find him watching me, waiting for my reaction, and I knew it mattered to him what I thought. “It’s incredible.”
One side of his mouth curved up in an almost-smile. What would it take to get his real smile? We were on the move again. I followed him upstairs and down a hallway, black-framed black and white photos lining the walls. My steps slowed as I studied the photos as if seeing them for the first time. They were mine, I’d taken them—a cobblestoned Parisian alley in the snow, a hazy gray London drizzle blanketing the Thames and Tower Bridge, bare trees in Central Park, the sun setting over the rooftops of Tribeca from my loft window.
“You hung them on your wall.” My voice was choked with emotion.
“They’re good, Rem.” He paused in front of the New York City skyline I’d shot from Brooklyn before moving on, carrying my bag by the handle instead of wheeling it over the smooth hardwood floors. That was Dylan though. He’d never taken the easy way out.
Pushing open the last door on the left, he carried my bag inside with me following close on his heels. He set my bag on a bench at the foot of a king-sized four-poster bed with plush white bedding, soft and downy, like a cloud. Mercury-glass lamps with white linen shades sat on dark wood bedside tables and a vintage Moroccan rug covered the hardwood floor, the vibrant colors faded with age. French doors opened onto a Juliet balcony with mountain and ocean views. It looked like a room in a boutique hotel.
“There’s an en suite,” he said, gesturing to a door next to the dresser.
“I just can’t believe this. It’s so nice. God, Dylan.” Grinning, I smacked his arm.
“Kid from the hood made good.”
And that was what this was all about—the house, the car, this life he’d created for himself. He’d been working his ass off since he graduated high school, trying to be ‘somebody’, as he’d once said. It wasn’t just about the money. It went deeper than that, and maybe I was the only one who could fully understand it. He had never felt like he measured up, had never felt worthy of Sienna or her family.
I’m Sienna’s dirty little secret.
“It’s beautiful, Dylan.” I looked around the room, trying to imagine him shopping for these items but I couldn’t. “Did you design this yourself? I mean, did you choose all the furniture and…” I shook my head and laughed. “Youhateshopping.”
“I didn’t do it myself. Not exactly.”
I raised my brows. “How mysterious. Who did it?”
He ran a hand over his sleek hair. “It’s my newest App. EZ-Design.”
I was so impressed with everything he had done and accomplished at only twenty-five, that it rendered me speechless and for a few moments I just stared at him. “You’re so smart, Dylan. How do you even know how to do all that?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s no big deal.”
But it was. It was a huge deal.
“I’ll order some dinner. What are you hungry for? Sushi? Vietnamese?”
“Are you going to order it on one of your apps? EZ-Food?” I teased. He shook his head and chuckled. “Sushi sounds good.”
He nodded and moved to the door. “Meet you by the pool.”
The bedroom door closed behind him and I flopped down on the bed, staring at the black wrought iron chandelier. Who was this designer version of Dylan St. Clair? He even smelled different. A subtle, spicy scent from his cologne or aftershave. Did he feel the same way about me? Like we were strangers, trying to get to know each other? After I changed into shorts and a tank top, I wandered out to the pool. The sun was setting over the hills—the sky streaked pink and orange—and Dylan was swimming laps, his strokes strong and sure. Unlike me, he could swim the fly. Show-off.
Sitting at the edge of the pool, my legs dangling in the water, I watched his tattoo-covered arms cut through the water, remembering the boy who had sung “Black” while he had floated in the ocean on our seventeenth birthday. I’d left Costa del Rey seven years ago and hadn’t stepped foot in this town since. How funny that Dylan had chosen to make his home here.
I needed a cigarette. Then I remembered that I quit. I wanted to be the best version of myself when I came to Costa del Rey. I was trying. Every single day I’ve been trying to be a Remy St. Clair that I could be proud of. Some days I felt like I succeeded. Other days, I was still that screwed-up seventeen-year-old who let a boy use her because she didn’t think she deserved anything better.
Dylan got out of the pool and toweled off just as the doorbell rang, as if he’d timed it perfectly.
We ate sushi outside on the Moroccan patio dotted with potted citrus trees, Moroccan lanterns hanging from the wood rafters, and I remembered a time when our idea of dinner was Spaghetti O’s and hot dogs or frozen pizzas. After dinner, he smoked a blunt which made me want a cigarette even more. Music piped from his surround-sound speakers, transforming the space into an Ibiza club.
“I’m so proud of you, Dylan.” My voice was soft and choked with emotion. Because I was there for all of it. All the years when we had nothing. And the years when we both lost our way.
“Proud of you too.”
