Something More Than This (15 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

W
hen I arrive at the newsroom on Monday morning a little later than usual, I’m nervous and anxious and terrified. But somehow, I think through the magic of Jonathan’s encouraging words and pep talk, I feel good about what I’m planning to do. My intention is to have a real heart-to-heart with Dylan about everything. Everything from finding out how he really feels about me, to realizing that I feel the same way, to acting on all those feelings the other night, to screwing up royally
. . .
everything. Because I want him. I want us. And I’m willing to face my fears to make it happen.

I’m thankful for the cacophony of the newsroom. My colleagues are talking on the phone and to each other, telephones are buzzing, computers are dinging with incoming and outgoing alerts. As I walk through the maze of desks, the noise keeps me focused on my own desk at the other side of the room instead of trying to sneak a peek into Dylan’s office.

I do it anyway.

For a split second before I turn my head, I’m filled with dread at the possibility that Rachel will be at his door with her boobs. As if she would know that she could swoop right in and pick up right where she left off. Which makes me wonder exactly what did happen with them before I got to Dylan’s condo the other night and made wild, passionate love to him . . . and then left him like the idiot that I am.

Good going, Katy.

The thought disappears almost as soon as it surfaces in my head, because I spot Dylan across the room, standing at the threshold of his office, staring right back at me. And the look in his eyes is . . . well, it’s not good. The tic of his jaw and the frustration in his eyes is evident even from where I stand. Then a slight movement at his side causes my attention to follow and I see his hands clench into fists. He does this a couple of times before turning on his heel and walking back into his office.

The muscles of his back shift underneath the soft cotton of his sky blue dress shirt, and I remember how it felt to have those same muscles bunch underneath my own hands a few nights ago. How it felt to have his body on top of mine, moving slowly and deliberately, as if time stood still for both of us. And finally, how it felt to have him inside of me. Bringing me a pleasure so great that I held on to him tightly, my nails digging into his skin and garnering a low groan from somewhere deep in his throat.

A shiver runs through me as the images flash in my mind.

It shakes me out of my stupor, and I notice that he left the door to his office wide open. This is my chance.

Frozen in the center of the chaos of the newsroom floor and with my emotions going up and down like a roller coaster inside my stomach, I try unsuccessfully to get my legs to start moving toward him. They don’t want to cooperate. It’s like my body is alerting me to danger ahead and is trying to protect me. However, memories of how he made my body feel provide just the right amount of gumption to propel me forward.

Just a few more steps,
I think to myself as my body finally cooperates. It’s only nine or ten more steps. My heart jackhammers away in my chest as a bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Three more steps. Two.

And then . . .

“Ms. Lewis.” Phoebe’s dead-as-the-night-sky voice breaks me out of my ambitious task. “He’s busy at the moment.”

I ignore her. Not caring if she thinks I’m the biggest bitch in the world right now. My need to get to Dylan is way more important than whatever lowly opinion she may have of me now and forever.

When I walk into his office, I quickly close the door and flip the lock for good measure. Resting my head against the unforgiving hard surface, I hear Dylan curse in frustration under his breath. Closing my eyes, I steel myself for a beat and gather my courage before turning around to face him.

He’s sitting behind his desk and looks as if he can’t even bear the sight of me. His bright eyes darken behind the black rims of his eyeglasses and speak to me without words. They say that he loves me, always has, but he doesn’t want to. They say that he’s struggling to keep himself in check. And they tell me that he wants to pretend that nothing happened between us the other night.

The closer I get to him, the more I falter under the weight of everything that has transpired in the past couple of weeks—and maybe even from the very beginning of our relationship. When I reach his desk, I adjust the strap of my messenger bag nervously before meeting his eyes again.

“What do you want, Katy?”

A thrill runs through me at his question. The same one he asked the night I appeared at his doorstep when I wanted nothing more than to be consumed by him.

“I wanted . . . I needed to talk to you about what happened on Friday . . . and Saturday morning. About everything.”

I might as well have thrown a lit match on a can of gasoline, because Dylan erupts from his chair, startling me. He stands there for a second before ducking his head down and resting his fists on his desk. A long sigh escapes him when he looks at me again and then runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says with a ring of finality that terrifies me.

“What do you mean you can’t do this anymore?” I sound like a stupid little girl even to my own ears. Of course he doesn’t want to do
this
anymore. But I need to try to change his mind. “Dylan, I’m sorry.”

He barely chuckles. “You’re sorry?”

“Yes, I needed to tell you that. And I need to tell you—”

“Don’t you understand that whatever you think you ‘need’ to tell me doesn’t matter? You blew it, Katy. All this time, you’ve
been
blowing it. You never picked up your head long enough to see that I’ve been here waiting for you . . . wanting you.” He pauses, then grabs on to the edge of his desk with such force that for a moment I think he might break it in half. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be in love with your best friend and not once have that person realize that you feel that way? Do you have any clue or the slightest inkling as to what it felt like to have you in my bed finally after all these years? Then wake up to find you gone? And for what? To fucking think?”

In a small voice, I say to him, “I didn’t know you felt that way, Dylan. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Really? Then why did you pull that little stunt last week?”

His eyebrow arches in challenge.

“Rachel.” I say her name out loud the moment she pops into my thoughts. “Because I didn’t want you to be with her and I needed to stop her from trying. And you from noticing her.”

“Are you serious?” He laughs out loud. Then Dylan comes around the desk slowly, stalking toward me while I almost wither under the pressure of his intense stare. When he’s right in front of me, I lower my head again. His hand comes up and softly takes hold of my chin, which he lifts to meet his eyes. He quietly says, “How the hell can I notice Rachel when all I see is you? All I’ve
ever
seen is you from the moment you walked through my door and into my life.”

Tears well up in my eyes. I feel like a complete bitch for being so relieved that he doesn’t want Rachel in that way. Because it only validates what Dylan’s really trying to say. That I’m selfish and completely blind when it comes to him . . . to us.

“I wish you would have told me. I wish—”

“You wish what, Katy?” He drops his hand from my face. He starts to back away and I immediately miss his touch. “You know what? I don’t care what you wish, it’s done. Please just get out of my office.”

“But I . . . please let me explain. Please give me a chance. It’s only fair.”

He’s already settling back into his chair and ignoring me by focusing his attention on the computer monitor. Then in the most dismissive voice I’ve ever heard come from Dylan, he says without looking at me, “And the next time you come barging in here, there will be consequences, Ms. Lewis.”

Hearing him say my name so formally tears right through me. Watching him type away at his desk as if I I’m not even here, waiting for me to leave his sight, leave his office, leave his life . . . it’s too much to bear. The tears I was holding in break free and stream down my face. And that’s my cue to leave.

I rub my hands across my cheeks to wipe away the tears and catch his attention one last time before walking to his office door. As I unlock the handle and open the door, he says to my back, “For the record, I did tell you once . . . you just don’t remember.”

Racking my brain, I mindlessly walk past Phoebe, past my colleagues, past the receptionist, and into the elevator. Once I’m safely inside, the memory finally comes back to me . . .

Two years ago . . .

“Truth or dare?” Mimi asked with a wiggle of her eyebrows. After filling a drink order at the far end of the bar, she came running back to Dylan and me with such pep in her step that I thought she might trip on the way back.

Dylan had agreed to meet us that night after closing up shop at the office later than usual. He’d had a really rough week and badly needed to decompress. The moment I asked him out, a smile so wide and bright spread across his face that I couldn’t stop from laughing. It was if I had given him the keys to the kingdom. He asked me if I was planning on drinking since he was well aware of the fact that I rarely do. I told him that I had no problem being his designated driver and that he was free to let loose. With that, an even bigger smile appeared.

“Katy,” he’d said earlier that day in his office, “you are the best.”

So there we all were, chatting and trying not to gossip too much about the office and who was dating who and who was supposedly sleeping with this one and that one. When all of a sudden, Mimi wanted to play truth or dare.

Just as she brought it up, another customer called her over. When she left, Dylan asked, “Is she serious? I haven’t played that game since I was in tenth grade.”

I leaned forward, resting my chin in my hand and enjoying the fact that Dylan was obviously a little tipsy and probably two drinks away from being officially drunk. Make that one drink.

I hadn’t seen him that drunk in all the time I’d known him. Not that I condoned being drunk. But it was nice to see him relaxed and not as proper and businesslike as he usually was. As the night—and the drinking—progressed, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. His sleeves were rolled up and he tried to keep a shot (or two) from spilling on his shirt. But I could see the cherry red stain splashed across his upper chest from the “special shot” that Mimi had made him.

“And how did you do when you played it back then?” I teased.

He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. Then his eyelids popped open and he said with a mischievous smile, “Second, maybe almost third base with Marianne Carter in her parents’ garage.”

We both laughed. “And whatever happened to Ms. Marianne Carter? Did you break her heart?”

“Nah, she broke mine,” he said. “She left me in the garage and went on to date someone who was older and wiser.”

“Like college older?”

“No, more like eleventh grade.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. And then he was laughing. And then before I knew it, I had that crazy choking kind of laugh that sounded like a snorting pig. This made Dylan laugh even harder.

Until Mimi came back with a serious look on her face and put us on the spot with her question: Truth or dare?

I told her that a truth should be told no matter what. I mean, if you were true friends with a person, why would you be lying to begin with? And a dare? Well, I just don’t live dangerously to begin with, so what would be the point?

She squared her shoulders, and with her usual no-nonsense delivery, she said, “Stop being such a downer. Just play the game. It’s easy. Watch.” She turned to Dylan and asked, “Truth or dare?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Truth.”

“Hmmm, let me think. Oh! Okay, I got one!” Mimi gave me a quick wink before asking, “When was the last time you had sex?”

“
Oh my God!
Mimi!” I was horrified that she chose to open with this question. “Are you kidding me?!” I was about to tell Dylan not to answer, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re a pervert, you know that?” he said to Mimi.

“Yup and proud of it. So tell me the truth, big guy.” She rested her elbows on the bar and added, “If you do, I’ll give you another shot of my special truth serum.”

“Do not answer her,” I said at the same time he answered.

“Two, wait, no . . . three weeks ago.”

For some reason, Dylan’s answer threw me for a loop. I swiveled my head to him, trying to remember if he’d mentioned dating anyone around that time. And I came up blank.

“How was it?” Mimi asked.

I covered my face with my hands. “Please. Stop. Don’t.”