Page 11 of The One Night Dash
She groans. “Apparently, the dress wasn’t the only victim.”
“All right, change of plans. We drop the dress at my guy’s before he closes, and then we hit the cell shop. Two rescues in one night.”
She blinks at me. “You’re … volunteering for errands now?”
“Not errands. Missions.” I grab my keys. “Operation Save the Dress and Bring the Smartphone Back to Life. We move fast, we can save them both.”
Hemingway lifts his head, gives me a look that saysyou’re ridiculous, and flops back down.
She sighs, picking up the bag. “Fine. But if your guy can’t, I will understand.”
“He can,” I say, already heading for the door. “And if the phone guy can’t fix your screen, I’ll buy you a burner so Nalani doesn’t send in the National Guard.”
She narrows her eyes again, but the corner of her mouth twitches. It’s cute as fuck. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Now, come on; the clock’s ticking, and we have a buzzer to beat.”
FOUR
NOELLE
I tellmyself I’m only looking at him because I need to commit the details to memory—for the book of course. Emmett, my hot barista, deserves a little physical upgrade in the next draft, and Dash Sterling is walking inspiration.
Away from Koa—who is six foot seven—it’s even more obvious that Dash is tall in a way that makes you rethink how doorways are sized—all broad shoulders and athletic lines under a black Henley that fits just a little too well. His hair is dark and just messy enough to look like he spent five minutes pretending not to style it. The kind of hair Emmett could push back when he leans into the crux of Sandra’s thighs and?—
No. Stop.
Dash Sterling has a type, and I’m not it. To be so fair, he’s not mine, either. My type doesn’t take up this much space or wear a smile like it’s custom-fitted. My type doesn’t have forearms that make you wonder how many espresso tampers they could crush without trying. But in my budding author brain, those details? The way he rests his weight onto one leg like he owns whatever sidewalk he’s standing on? Those could work wonders for Emmett.
Give me a sexy barista, a teacher, a tech nerd, a poet. Of course, they need to be hot for the readers, which means I need to allow myself to lean into not only all my romantic notions, but the classic hot guy persona and appearance—the veiny forearms, the sexy hair, the smile that makes panties drop and hearts flutter.
Dash hasn’t changed one bit. No complaints; he’s never wronged me or anyone I’ve heard of, and right now he’s just the guy holding open the door, telling me to get into the SUV that smells faintly of money and leather. He’s not even driving; we’re in the back, a uniformed driver up front.
The driver pulls away, and I sink into the comfy seat. I want to ask him why he’s doing all this, but I already know the answer. A mix of pity, the fact that he’s friends and teammates with my friend Nalani’s husband, and we knew each other in college because he banged my college sorority sister/“bestie” …at the time. It’s not like there’s anything in it for him. Not in the romantic sense, anyway.
He’s a player, but in a way that is obvious; he’s not hiding the fact, no ulterior motives or red flags. He was great to Lauren back in college; they were officially not an official couple, but there was no bed hopping.Purely physical.Although I remember letting my imagination go wild and picturing them married, with a kid and a retriever. He’d play hockey, she’d … spend his money. I’d get a Christmas card of their perfect family and hang it on my mantel, next to the one of me and my genius husband, a professor with sexy glasses who loved books and discussing them with me. A tech geek who changed the world and rocked mine at night. He’d be in a thinking man pose, and our genius kid would smile but would be doing it just for the camera because somewhere in the back of their minds, they would have a project or a book they were counting the secondsuntil they could get to. Oh, and Hemingway, of course, would be there, too.
This is a friendly gesture, one I greatly appreciate, especially since he hasn’t brought up the way he found me after my spiral, in full crash mode, listening to the song—my anthem—that brings me out of those moments … on repeat. Not that I care—it’s Dash.
I keep the garment bag balanced across my lap like it’s an injured animal. Dash leans back in his seat, one arm stretched along the backrest, so relaxed he’s man spreading, but not in an intrusive way; there’s plenty of room for …
“What are you doing?” I ask when he leans over and wraps his arm around me, pulling me snug against him.
“Proof of life.” He holds his phone out and says, “Smile.”
“Whaaattt?”
Chuckling to himself, he leans back to where he was and taps on the screen as he tells me, “Sending Nalaini and Koa a text, letting them know I got you and that we’re off to save this perfect dress and get your phone fixed.”
“Thank you,” I say as I look down. “Really, it’s nice of you to go out of your way to?—”
“Help a friend out?” He shakes his head. “You’d do the same for me.”
I think about it for a few seconds. “I would, but we’d be taking the sneaker express or the subway. I’ve yet to find myself a car and driver.”
“You’ll have one if that’s what you want, I’m sure of it.”
“One day.”
