Page 55 of Art of Love

“I have a better idea.” He ran his hands up to her waist. “What do you say we head back to our room, and I see what sexy things you are wearing under that dress?”

She smiled and then brushed her lips across his.

“I’ll save you the trouble. There’s nothing under here,” she whispered. “Just me.” It was soft, just a whisper of contact, but it lit him up from the inside like she’d flipped a switch he hadn’t realized was off.

He groaned softly and started to lean in again, to kiss her for real, but someone tapped his shoulder.

Of course.

“Sorry to interrupt, Abe,” said a guy in a velvet jacket and with a mouth full of extremely white teeth. Abe thought his name was Charles or Charlie? “You’ve got to come say hi to the execs from Silver Coast. They’ve been asking for you all night.”

Abe clenched his jaw but forced a smile. “Sure. Lead the way.”

He took Dylan’s hand, and they were pulled back into the swirl of partygoers, moving from one circle of industry people to the next. He made the rounds, shook hands, made small talk, did the whole I’m-still-a-human-even-though-I’m-famous routine.

And Dylan? She was flawless.

He introduced her to a few well-known producers, a Grammy-winning songwriter, and even a rock legend who smelled like cigars and leather and called her “darlin’” twice. Not once did she fangirl or get googly-eyed. She just smiled politely, asked smart questions, and carried herself like she’d been doing this for years.

Damn, she was good at hiding it. Either that or she really wasn’t impressed.

He caught her eye during a particularly awkward conversation about music licensing. Her lips curved into a knowing smirk, and just like that, he wanted to haul her out of there, find the nearest exit, and steal her away to somewhere they could be alone.

But the night had a rhythm of its own. They drifted towards the bar, where Dylan surprised him by ordering a dirty martini, extra olives, like it was her go-to drink. It probably wasn’t. But she owned it.

At one point, he watched her standing under a cluster of hanging lights, the diamonds at her throat catching the glow just right. She looked effortless. Regal, even. Like someone meant for red carpets and private jets and yet completely untouched by all of it. She wasn’t performing. She was just… her.

He didn’t know how the hell he’d gotten lucky enough to have her on his arm. How in the world was he going to keep her there? Would he be lucky enough for her to want to stay?

When the party began to thin out and the music shifted to a slower tempo, Abe slipped his hand into hers and quietly signaled to the driver. No long goodbyes to the host. No promises to call from the executives.

When they finally made it back into the limo, Dylan let out a long, dramatic sigh and flopped back into the seat.

“Oh my god, my face hurts from smiling,” she groaned, kicking off her heels.

Abe chuckled, loosening his collar. “You were a pro.”

She turned to look at him, her cheeks flushed, her hair a little tousled, and the necklace glinting against her collarbone. “I’m never doing that again without a pre-game tequila.”

He laughed. “I’ll make a note.”

“You were amazing, by the way,” she added, more softly now. “That song... Abe, it was beautiful.”

He looked over at her, his throat tightening. “It was true. Every word.”

The limo curved through the glowing streets of LA, city lights flickering past the windows like stars on fast-forward. She shifted closer to him and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t belong in this world,” she said quietly. “But... I liked watching you in it.”

He kissed the top of her head. “You’re wrong. You belong wherever the hell you want to be.”

She smiled against his shoulder, and for the first time all night, he let himself relax. Because for once, the night hadn’t been about pretending.

It had been about her.

And her being there made all of it real.

“I totally fan-girled all over Dolly. I mean, it’s Dolly!” she admitted.