liked it earlier."
"Oh, yes? Which bit?"
Dylan smirks. "All of it. Get changed; otherwise, we’ll miss the sunset."
"The sky’s too cloudy."
"She is today."
Unable to find a good retort, I stalk upstairs.
As I change into jeans and a fitted blue T-shirt, I peer at myself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks and brighter blue eyes - a couple of days without tears, living in my fantasy world and the layer of sad is peeling off my face. I touch my lips, visions of Dylan's lips dancing into my mind's eye. When his stubble touched my legs before, it scratched lightly and sent a not very chaste tingle through my body. Will he kiss me if I ask him? I snort at myself. He said he liked me because I didn't want to…ah...screw him. But he did say something about changing my mind.
Deciding all this is having a bad effect on my heart rate, I head downstairs vowing to think only pure thoughts for the rest of the evening. And not admit to anyone (including myself) that every word of the hot sex in the book downstairs involved a man who looked uncannily like Dylan.
Chapter Six
Warm English summers often lead to cool, cloudless evenings, and I shiver as we walk along the beach towards the town, wishing I’d brought my jacket. When we reach the stone steps, Dylan waits on a low wall at the bottom, and I make the five-minute trip to the fish and chip shop. We don't discuss why he decided to wait, but we both know why. Dylan wears a navy hoodie, and sits with the hood over his face, hands burrowed into the pockets.
What would it be like to live his life? The fact he may be more famous than he's making out pushes on the edges of the bubble. I like my bubble; I won't be the one to burst it by pushing to find out if he is.
I wrap my bare arms around the welcome warmth of the paper fish and chip packages as I carefully climb back down the steps. Eating straight from the greasy paper used to be a tradition of our holidays. Is this Dylan's too? I stand in front of him, hugging the meal.
"Where did you used to go to eat your fish and chips as a kid?" I ask.
"Normally, we'd sit here on this wall. You?"
"We used to sit on the beach and watch the sunset."
"Sounds like a plan." Dylan holds his hands out for the food but I keep hold, passing him the cans of orange Fanta.
We find a sheltered spot and sit against the tall rocks at the edge of the dunes, looking over the beach. If I'd planned this better, I'd have brought a blanket. I unwrap the parcels, and peel the greasy paper back. The smell is heaven. Heart attack inducing, celestial goodness. I close my eyes and inhale, making a satisfied noise.
Dylan chuckles. "Funny, Sky."
I open an eye. "What?"
"Nothing, at least you're not obsessed about what you eat." With deft fingers, he unwraps his bundle too. "Forks?"
"Umm. I forgot."
He rolls his eyes. "Fingers it is then."
As much as I love fish and chips, the sensation of Dylan's hard thigh pressed against mine interferes with my appetite. We're touching, his soft cotton hoodie warm against my goose-bumped arm, the material rubbing me as he eats. Whatever his presence fills my stomach with; it won't be chips. Damn. I pick at the food, attempting to quell the shaky excitement of being close to this man.
"We can go back to the house and get forks if you don't want to use your fingers?" he suggests through a mouthful of chips.
I wrinkle my nose. "It's fine, I'm not as hungry as I thought."
Dylan shrugs and returns to his food. As the sun drops behind the horizon, the temperature drops to match. I gaze at the red and orange clouds streaking across the sky and touching the grey sea, and focus very hard on not getting aroused by Dylan.
"Wow, it's a long time since I've had decent fish and chips. Not quite LA style," he grins, rubbing his belly.
"I suspect if you had too many fish and chips, you wouldn't have the body you do..." I trail off. Nice one, Sky, lay yourself open .
He lets me off. "True. Being on stage burns a lot off
Learning to Kill: Stories