Page 93 of Heartland
“Fuck,” Dylan hisses when we pull into the driveway. Music is blaring from the house, and I see people in the windows.
“Problem?” I ask.
“Not really. I just forgot that Rickie invited people over.”
This place is a zoo. “Should I go home?” I wonder aloud.
“Ohhellno.” He cuts the engine. “Come on. Let’s sneak in the back door.”
I let out a nervous giggle, but Dylan has already exited the truck. Seconds later, he’s opening my door for me, shouldering my backpack again and helping me down. When he closes the truck’s door, I take a step toward the house.
Dylan stops my progress, pushing me back against the side of the truck, taking my chin into one of his roughened palms and then kissing me deeply.
His kisses are still a surprise. I’ve had quite a few of them by now, but I’m never really prepared for the warm press of his generous lips against mine and the commanding way he parts my lips to taste me. He kisses me with focus and intense concentration.
No wonder there’s always a line around the block to kiss Dylan Shipley. I get it now.
I lose his mouth after an intense minute or two, but he rests his forehead against mine for a moment. “That will have to hold me until I can get you upstairs alone. Now let’s go.”
As we head for the kitchen door, he takes my hand in his, which is a different kind of exciting. Is it weird that it makes me want to shout?
Dylan is holding my hand!
From the mud room where we’re kicking off our shoes, Dylan pokes his head into the kitchen.
“Dylan!” Rickie shouts. “Where’ve you been? The punch is half gone.”
“Hey, Rick,” Dylan says, hanging my backpack on a hook and then taking my hand again. “Quite the party you’ve got here.”
“Nice of you to stop by.” Rickie smirks at us. His eyes dart to our joined hands. “Who wants punch?”
Dylan looks at me. “Pour you a glass?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I don’t really care.
He drops my hand to reach for the ladle in the punch bowl on the table. “So who’s here?” Dylan asks his roommate.
“The usual suspects. But none of the music department girls, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Good deal,” Dylan says quickly, and I relax, too. I don’t think I could face Kaitlyn tonight and maintain my bravado at the same time.
“Keith’s playing some music with that guy Earnest. So if you’re not in the mood to jam you should probably avoid the living room.”
“That is excellent advice,” Dylan says, handing me a glass cup filled with a rosy red liquid. “Careful,” he says. “The fruit juice covers the taste of what I can only assume is a lot of alcohol.”
“Noted,” I say, taking a sip. It’s tart and sweet and wonderful.
He lowers his mouth to my ear. “Don’t get drunk, okay? I have big plans for you.” Then he pats his pocket—the same one where my underpants are.
“Okay,” I breathe, and he smiles.
He grabs a beer out of a six-pack on the counter and pops it open on a wall-mounted device for this very purpose. “Come on.” He puts a hand on my lower back, and I’m happy to be led toward the staircase.
“Dylan!” Keith shouts as we pass the door to the living room. “Come jam with us! And do a shot!”
“Nope!” he calls.
“What do you mean no?” Keith demands. “Get your fiddle.”
