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And though those things could also be said about the man stepping onto the red carpet at my side tonight, Evan and Dylan could not be more different. Most importantly, Dylan is upfront with his intentions. All of them—his plan to use me to get back at Evan, and his plan to get underneath, behind, or on top of me. He’s being polite about it, but I could see his eyes roamingto my legs when I would shift them in my seat. And when he wasn’t looking there, his gaze was a mix of cold-hearted brutality and fiercely tamped down desire. Dylan is a man of hardness and raw emotion.
Days ago, I would’ve put him off. Now, his attraction to me, as well as his willingness to involve me in what seems to be a long-deserved revenge plot, both give me an extra jolt of confidence as a flash goes off in my face.
“Everything alright?” Dylan asks under his breath, and it brings me back to the moment. He offers me a hand, and I nod, taking it and wrapping my arm through his. His warmth is at odds with the chill air of fall.
He looks completely unbothered by all of this—me, our conversation, the car ride, the photographers. But to me, the entire ride from my apartment to here felt almost surreal, like a blend of luxury and style but with all of the matter-of-factness of taking the SATs. While nakedly vulnerable. Not physically, but mentally. Because Dylan seems to know everything, see everything.
I never feltseenwhen I was with Evan. My heart twists, and I hate it. Tonight is not for my weak little heart. It’s for vengeance.
“Is it always like this?” I murmur to Dylan, who nods slightly and gives a cold smile to the photographers. Taking the cue from him, I smile as well, although I hope my smile for the paparazzi is a bit warmer. It serves both of our goals if I look like I’m enjoying myself.
I am enjoying myself, I remind my racing heart as anxiousness stirs in the pit of my stomach. I push aside thoughts of Evan, revenge, and even Dylan, trying to focus on the professional reasons I’m here.
“You’re going to do fine. Relax,” Dylan comments as we pass through the high arched doorway.
His bicep flexes, holding me to him, as we get into theelevator, and I notice he’s not letting me go. It’s comforting, almost, like I can lean on him a moment while I get a grip on my bearings.“Any last-minute advice?” My head goes light for a moment as we rush higher into the sky.
“Be yourself,” he says. “You’re charming and smart and would be an asset to any firm, so use every advantage you’ve got to make an impression.”
I nod as if that’s ground-breaking advice. It does help slightly, though.
The heart of the event is the ballroom of the Continental Hotel, which takes up fifteen floors of the Faulkner Building. Getting off the elevator on the top floor of the hotel, we walk down the hallway toward the ‘Grand Ballroom’.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I demand quickly, pulling him to a stop. “I know people will make assumptions, but it’d be nice to have at least one personal fact about you to deflect them with.”
Dylan looks down at me, considering his answer. “I built a model aircraft carrier in my office.”
“You built a what?” I ask, surprised at the randomness.
“Complete with an air wing. Hand built, hand painted, and thirty-six inches long,” he says as if merely stating facts. I can only guess how much time and effort he put into it, and simply because… what? He wanted to?
“So you like model aircrafts?”
“I admire the history behind aircraft development, but that particular project was… meditative.”
“Healing?” I guess.
“Something like that,” he states but doesn’t offer more.
We go through the entrance line, Dylan handing over his engraved invitation, and I let out a huff of a silent laugh. Dylan looks over. “What?”
"Thought youdidn’t come to these?”
He shrugs, unbothered by his small exaggeration. “Rarely, not never.”
He starts to say something else, but a man catches his eye and begins walking intently toward us. “The man approaching is named Tyler. He’s a business associate.” Dylan’s quick with the information, uttering it under his breath before turning to the man.
“Dylan, how’s it going?” Tyler asks, offering his hand. They shake, much more enthusiastically than I sense Dylan would prefer. I also notice Dylan’s hand going around my waist, his fingers resting just outside my low back as if ready to pull me tight at a moment’s notice. “I scouted out the food. They’ve got bacon wrapped shrimp that’s gonna go fast.” He says it as though he’s sharing valuable information.
“Tyler,” Dylan says evenly. “Good to know.”
“And who is your beautiful companion?” Tyler continues on, as if on one long monologue. “Tyler Hunt,” he says, introducing himself before Dylan has a chance to make the introductions.
I take his offered hand, adding a warm smile. Dylan’s hand tightens slightly on my waist, and though I take it as a warning to stick close to him, it also feels surprisingly intimate. “Raven Hill,” I answer more breathily than I intended. I clear my throat delicately and allow Dylan to do the talking.
To me, he explains, “Tyler’s a senior account manager at First National. He and I have done a number of deals together.”
“It’s wonderful to meet you,” I tell Tyler. I’m more than aware of First National. This man has no idea who I am, but I hope one day, he will.
