Only in My Dreams (14 page)

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Restless, I guess. When I went from spending weekdays at my mom's to spending them at my dad's in high school, it was a . . . weird adjustment.”

“How?”

He thought of the awkwardness of intruding on his dad's family, invading their daily routine, which was precisely how it had felt. They loved him, welcomed him, but he was a piece of a different puzzle—one he wondered if he'd ever find. “My room was my dad's office. I slept on the sofa bed. I never really felt like I lived there, but it was important enough for me to go to West Valley High—for the football program—so I put up with it.”

“That doesn't sound like fun,” she said softly.

He inwardly cringed, wishing he hadn't shared so much. “Is it too late to ask for Vegas Rules again?”

She returned his smile. “Not at all. Guess that means it's your turn to ask me something.”

Heat sparked in his groin as the first question popped into his head:
Will you let me make love to you again?
No way was he going to ask that. Since he'd overshared, he decided to go for broke. “Why did Alex kill himself?”

Her hand flexed, her fingers tugging her sleeve up over her hand. She didn't immediately answer and Dylan worried he'd overstepped. Why had he asked such a personal question anyway? Because he felt comfortable with her—like they were friends. An apology formed on his lips when she said, “Actually, it's a bit of a mystery. None of us saw it coming.”

She looked out at the pool tables where a few games had started up. “He was sick. He'd always been sick. He was the one born with the most problems. He was the smallest, stayed in the NICU the longest, suffered several infections, and had terrible respiratory issues that became chronic lung disease.” Dylan vaguely remembered this from their reality show, which had detailed their miraculous conception—via fertility drugs—and birth. “He was oxygen dependent and apparently very depressed,” Sara continued. “We all knew he was seeing a psychologist, but we didn't understand how bad off he really was. He tried taking antidepressants but suffered a reaction that caused a lung infection. Honestly, he hid the symptoms of his depression really well. Or we were all just too self-involved to notice.” She wore a vague frown, almost akin to befuddlement, like she was going over in her mind how they all could've missed the clues.

“Can you talk to the psychologist?”

“She closed her practice and left Ribbon Ridge after he died. Anyway, it doesn't matter now, does it? He's gone and we can't bring him back.” Her gaze connected with his for a brief second, but it was enough for him to suspect that she was done talking about this.

He felt bad for asking the question in the first place. She'd already said she was tired of bad days, and here he was dredging up her brother's suicide. Damn, he was really off his game with this one. “I think it's time for that game of pool. Have you played before?”

Her eyes took on an attentive luster. “Yes, but not in a long time.”

“It's like riding a bike.” He jumped down from his stool and went to select a couple of cues from the wall. He was mildly surprised when she joined him and immediately picked one up. “You know what you want?” he asked, not intending the innuendo, but enjoying the answering sparkle in her gaze.

She ran her palm along the length. God, was she doing that on purpose? He went half-hard and prayed she didn't notice. “Looks good to me.” She strolled over to the closest pool table.

He chose a cue for himself, adjusting his jeans while his back was to her, then went back to the table. “Do you want to play eight ball? That's the simplest, and if it's been a while since you played, might be best.”

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly. “Are you going easy on me because you feel sorry for me after the conversation we just had?”

He laughed. “Maybe. Should I stop?”

She was quiet a moment. “No, an easy game is for the best, I think.”

He gathered the balls and racked them on the table. “Ladies first.”

Sara positioned the cue ball and broke. She immediately sank the yellow number one ball. She glanced up at him. “Lucky break.”

“Apparently. Do you know what to hit next?”

“I try to put all the solids into the pockets, if memory serves.”

“That's right.”

She moved around the table, bending to try a shot, but then standing up and moving. “This is harder than I remember.” She leaned over again and took her shot, sending the blue ball skidding into a side pocket. Her gaze flickered surprise.

She moved to a new position on the opposite side of the table and took her time lining up for a shot. She hit the orange ball, but it didn't go in. She straightened, though her gaze still studied the table. “Your turn.”

He touched her back lightly. “That was a great start.”

“Thanks.” She retreated to their table and sipped her drink while Dylan contemplated his shot.

He took the easiest angle first, dropping the ten ball in a corner pocket, then sank the fifteen and twelve in rapid succession. He glanced over at Sara, but she was watching the table intently. Should he miss his next shot? He didn't want to trounce her. He also didn't want to give her the game, both because he didn't think she'd want him to and because the competitor in him was alive and well.

He took his time eyeing his next shot, but finally put the nine ball in a side pocket. Sara stood near the table, her hand wrapped around the upper part of her cue, which rested on the floor. Her hip was cocked at a provocative angle that drew Dylan's eye to follow the curve of her thigh up to the sharp indentation of her trim waist and then farther up to the lacy camisole peeking out from the low V-neck of her green sweater.

“You going to play or gawk?” she asked.

He snapped his head up to find her eyes on him in a distinctly hot stare. There was a challenge and a promise in her gaze that nearly drove pool completely from his mind. Reluctantly, he forced himself to take his next shot, but just missed sinking the thirteen ball.

He walked back to their table and took a drink of beer. Sara was already taking her shot by the time he set his glass down. The number three ball slid into a corner pocket. She barely hesitated before sending the four ball into another pocket. Then she leaned down to shoot the five ball. She was shooting them
in order
. And doing a damned good job of it.

Before he knew it, she'd sunk five, six, and seven. Without looking at him first, she set her cue behind the eight ball and shot it mercilessly across the table, smacking the fourteen ball in the process. Nevertheless, the eight ball ricocheted off one side and rolled relentlessly into the opposite pocket.

“I'll be damned,” he breathed. “You're a little better than you let on.”

She looked at him sheepishly. “Sorry.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You lied.”

“No, I took an advantage.” Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. “You shouldn't have gone easy on me.”

He couldn't suppress a grin. “Tell me about it. And though you kicked my ass, I had fun watching you do it. Now it's revenge time. Again?”

Her gaze, alight with joy, found his. “Absolutely.”

They played two more games. He won the next, and the last was a hard-fought battle that she managed to pull off.

They sat down to finish their drinks.

“How'd you get so good at pool?” Dylan asked.

She stroked the stem of her glass. “We have a pool table.”

“I forgot.” Now he remembered playing there a few times in high school.

“And brothers.” She lifted her drink for a sip. “Though it's probably George's fault.”

“George?”

“He's the bartender at the Arch and Vine. He and Dad have been friends for years and he's quite the pool hound. Played in a league for a long time until his back started bothering him too much.”

A dark-haired woman in her thirties tentatively approached their table. “Excuse me, aren't you Sara Archer?” She shot an apologetic glance at Dylan before fixing her attention on Sara. “I don't mean to bother you, but I wanted to ask what's going on with the old monastery. I heard your family is renovating it into a hotel or something? Anyway, I hope I'm not being nosy, but I wanted to ask when it's going to open.”

“Not for another year at least,” Dylan said, eyeing Sara who seemed a little nervous. “How did you know she was Sara Archer?”

The woman blushed a pale pink. “I used to watch the show, and, well, the Archers are local celebrities, right? Anyway, a friend of a friend used Sara for a baby shower a year or so ago and raved about her.” She looked at Sara. “I was wondering if you planned to do events at the monastery. It's such a pretty location.”

Sara perked up. “Who's your friend of a friend?”

The woman moved closer to the table, her face lighting up. “Shelby Clark. I'm Jemma Rodriguez.”

“Hi, Jemma, nice to meet you.” Sara offered her hand and Jemma took it. “We will be offering events at the new facility. I'm not quite at liberty to say much right now, but if you give me your number, I'll be in touch when I can disclose more.”

Jemma smiled broadly then dug into her purse. “Here's my card. I'm so happy I saw you sitting here and that I had the nerve to talk to you.”

Sara blushed slightly. “I'm glad you did, too, thanks.”

“I'll talk to you soon!” Jemma gave a little wave and walked away.

Sara turned and tucked the card into her purse hanging from the back of her chair.

“Does that happen often?” Dylan asked. “People recognizing you from the TV show?”

“It used to, not so much anymore.”

“How was doing the show? Surreal?” Shoot, just because he would've found it odd didn't mean she did.

She rolled her eyes, pulling a grin from him. “God, yes. I was pretty uncomfortable. Not filming the show, but with the attention that came from it. We basically had no secrets, and that's hard as an adolescent girl.”

He could well imagine how difficult it must have been, particularly for her. “How'd you guys end up on TV?”

“I'm not entirely sure, but it had something to do with an old friend of my parents. He thought our family was inspiring or something.”

Dylan polished off his beer. He could go for another, but knew she'd hit her two-drink limit.

“I suppose we should go?” Her gaze connected with his in silent question. He couldn't tell if it was an invitation or an innocent query, like, “I'm up for more if you are.” His body most definitely was, but no way was he tapping that again. Two nights could easily turn into three, and then things weren't simple anymore. Dylan preferred—no, he needed—simple, particularly given their work relationship.

“Tonight's Vegas Rules can't be like last time,” he said.

She nodded sharply. “Of course not.” She pulled her purse from the back of her chair and withdrew her wallet.

He waved at her to put it back. “I got this, remember?”

“I still have to pay for the first round from earlier.”

“Actually, you don't. I got that too.”

She pursed her lips. “You shouldn't have.”

“If I'd known what an independent-minded woman you are, I never would've done it. You can buy next time—and I'll order a giant, expensive steak.”

She laughed as she stood up from the table.

He jumped to his feet, grinning. The evening had been fun, casual—even with the undercurrent of attraction simmering between them. Shit, he'd just implied they should do it again. He wasn't sure he could endure another evening like this with her, knowing it was going to end with them apart. “I'll walk you to your car.”

She preceded him and he struggled to keep his hand from touching her lower back. Outside, she walked toward her car, parked just a few spaces from his truck in the lot. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it when he'd arrived. She unlocked it with her remote and then turned to face him, her backside grazing her driver door. “Did you change your mind about meeting Hayden and Cameron?”

He wasn't in the mood to hook up with a stranger. Problem was, after spending time with Sara, he wanted to hook up.
With her
. Which he could
not
do. Damn, he needed to sever this attraction once and for all. Maybe he
should
meet them. “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Oh.” Hell, she sounded disappointed. “Tell my brother to behave.”

“No sage advice for me?” He really needed to stop flirting with her. Like
now
.

“Something tells me you don't know how to behave.”

“If you only knew how well I was behaving right now, you'd give me a medal.” He stepped back before he succumbed to impulse and brushed his thumb over her lips and tasted her mouth. “But like you said, no fraternizing. See you, Sara.”

Her blue eyes were dark and intense in the lamplight bathing them. “See you.”

She turned and opened the door. With a final, heated glance she got into her car and started the engine. He didn't move until she pulled out of the spot and drove away.

Chapter Eight

A
FTER SPENDING
S
ATURDAY
night and Sunday at her condo, Sara pulled into the dusty lot at the monastery for Monday morning's meeting. She was early on purpose so she could enjoy a few minutes of solitude. Alex had chosen such a beautiful place—she could almost feel his presence.

However, her plan was foiled as Tori drove in and parked beside her. “Hey,” she said, climbing out of the gold Prius their parents kept for when their children visited from out of town. “Where were you yesterday?”

“At home—Mom knew where I was.”

“Alone?” Tori's question dripped with insinuation. “Or did you take Dylan back to your place?” Her accompanying wink said she was kidding, but Sara nearly choked considering she'd actually done that not too long ago.