Page 53 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series
She fumbled for her wallet in her bag, all too aware of Dylan watching her.
“Here you go, mate. Keep the change.” His voice rumbled through the cab as he passed a handful of notes to the driver, friendly and relaxed and—for one brief, completely disorientating moment—Monet couldn’t stop herself imagining him naked. Naked and standing before her, waiting for her to discover all his proportions as he told her about stockmen and whoop whoop and Rodin’sThe Kissin his friendly, relaxed sexy voice.
God! What’s wrong with me? It’s the accent. Gotta be the accent.
She flicked him a look, wishing she could find her snarky I’m-a-successful-artist poise, or even her hey-I’m-a-New-Yorker arrogance. All she could find was the new and highly traitorous I-want-to-fuck-my-best-friend’s-cowboy lust, and that wasn’t any help to her at all.
She released her seatbelt and all but fell from the cab in her hurry to get away from Dylan and the unnerving temptation he presented.
Cool autumn air wrapped around her, icy against the burning heat in her cheeks. She slammed the door, flipped off the driver of a Camaro blasting his horn at her for tumbling into his road, and leaned against the taxi.
She had to get herself under control. The cowboy was off-limits. Off. Limits.
Straightening her spine, she pulled another breath—this one not so shaky—and walked around the trunk of the cab.
To find Dylan standing on the sidewalk,FWBin his arms, hat on his head, his green gaze trained on her. “Ready?”
Bam!Just like that, the traitorous I-want-to-fuck-my-best-friend’s-cowboy lust slammed into her again. Hard, fast and undeniable.
God help her.
* * *
Dylan watched the bevy of men and women arranging paintings and sculptures under various spotlights in the small art gallery, fussing about as if the artworks were a herd of prize stud cattle about to go to auction.
He stood to one side of the gallery’s main room, between a large painting depicting what hethoughtwas a woman being made love to by a gust of wind, and a sculpture of the same couple fromFWB. At least, he assumed it was the same couple. This time they weren’t so much making out as coming out—the male unzipping his torso to expose female breasts and the woman peeling off her legs as if they were jeans to reveal a fat, flaccid cock and a very impressive scrotum.
It was, suffice to say, the most surreal moment of Dylan’s life.
Had he thought he was out of place gazing up at the Empire State Building only an hour ago? Ha.Herehe was out of place.
“You okay?”
He turned at the sound of Monet’s voice, finding her standing to his left. She smiled when his gaze fell upon her, the action doing disturbing things to the pit of his stomach. And his groin. “Yeah, I’m good.” He pushed his hat back a bit on his head and showed her his I’m-good grin. “Feeling a little like a shag on a rock, but apart from that, no worries.”
Monet blinked, her cheeks filling with the delightful blush Dylan truly enjoyed. “Feeling like what?”
“A shag on a rock.” Then realization smacked into him. “I mean, out of place. Sorry. Bloody hell, I didn’t mean I wanted a…on a…fuck, I mean… Oh Jesus.”
He ground his teeth, drew a breath, counted to five and started again, far too aware of the sudden stares he was getting from around the gallery. “A shag is a type of water bird that always perches alone on rocks with its wings spread. It usually stands out like dog’s balls—” Heat flooded Dylan’s face. He pressed a hand to his eyes, cursing his stupidity.
You really don’t belong here, mate.
Monet burst out laughing, the relaxed sound echoing around the gallery. “Dylan, talking to you is by far the most educational, visual experience of my life.”
Dylan peered at her through his fingers before dropping his hand. “Ta muchly, love. But I think it’s probably better I just keep my gob shut for a while. At least until I’ve found my dignity. I get the feeling I left it back at Farpoint Creek.”
Monet’s blue eyes twinkled. “Given your situation, I think you’re doing marvelously.”
“My situation? Stood up on the other side of the world, luggage-less and completely incapable of contacting anyone who wants to talk to me? That situation?”
Once again, Monet laughed. “Well, when you put it that way…”
Dylan laughed with her. That he’d unsuccessfully tried to call Hunter three times during the cab ride to the gallery should have bugged the shit out of him. It didn’t. For two reasons—one, had been roughly nine a.m. back home and the Farpoint Creek homestead pretty much emptied out once the sun broke the horizon, every man and his dog getting on with the job of running Australia’s second largest cattle station.
And two, he was enjoying himself. Too much.
Every second with Monet was enjoyable. Not for the fact she made him hornier than sin—although that was pretty bloody enjoyable—but that she made him laugh. It was wrong, of course. He’d flown all this way to meet Annie, a woman he’d described to his brother as “his soul mate”. Hunter had laughed his arse off at that. Had called Dylan a fucking idiot. What would his twin make of the situation Dylan currently found himself in?
