Indigo Nights (Nights #3)(21)

Beth

I stood in front of the window watching the river and clutching the phone to my ear. Maybe I should agree to dinner with Dylan. As he said, he wasn’t proposing marriage.

“I’m not trying to be mysterious. It’s nothing, just something silly.”

Truth was, I was a little embarrassed about the TV thing. I was almost certain nothing would come of it so I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, then look like an idiot when I flew home with my tail between my legs. I didn’t want to feel the disappointment or the shame because I knew the cure for both was booze. I’d avoided those feelings for a long time, so I wasn’t sure how I’d cope with them sober. Problem was, I was already invested, so if it didn’t work out, I was going to have to work through that. My baking was important to me. It didn’t deserve the association that it had with my sobriety. It meant more to me than that.

“Tell me.” Dylan wasn’t giving up very easily—and I was quite enjoying his persistence.

“I’m just going to WCIL studios tomorrow to film a trial segment for their Saturday morning show. I’m sure it will be a disaster, but I just don’t want to make it worse by not preparing. Does that make sense?”

Dylan took a deep breath. “Yeah, of course. You’re going to try out for a presenting job?”

“Oh God no, nothing like that. As you know, I like cake.”

“I had noticed that.”

“I also really like to bake.” It wasn’t a secret but I hadn’t mentioned the YouTube thing to anyone outside my London family. Dylan was so interested it seemed silly not to tell him. “I just put up a couple of videos of me baking on YouTube and WCIL called me about doing something similar on the Saturday breakfast show.” I fell back onto the bed. “I just want to give it my best shot.”

“I get that. So, you like to bake?”

“I love to bake—and eat what I bake, and I love other people eating my creations.” I grinned up at the ceiling.

“Maybe, you’ll bake for me one day. I should let you go. You have a busy day tomorrow.”

As much as I wanted to prepare for tomorrow, I also wanted to continue talking to Dylan. But he wasn’t looking for a friend; he was looking for a hookup.

“Okay. You must be tired from your flight.”

“Have sweet, sweet dreams. And good luck, I hope it works out for you tomorrow.”

He ended our call and I gazed up at the ceiling. I guess that was how this went—If I wasn’t agreeing to meet up with him, then there was no point in just chatting. Problem was, I wanted to hook up with him again. I wanted a little orgasmic fun. He was a sure thing who could make me come. Perhaps I’d suggest a hookup tomorrow night, after going to the A Chicago Saturday’s studio. I was going to stop by an AA meeting straight after—I wanted to make sure I was keeping my sobriety as my priority, however exciting or disappointing my day had been. The orgasm thing was becoming a little addictive. I jumped off the bed, feeling like a woman with a plan.

In the bathroom I examined the array of bath products, and chose a lavender oil that promised relaxation. I was pretty sure Mr. 8A would be more effective, but as I’d turned that down, a bath would have to do. I sprinkled the contents of the bottle into the bath and stepped in.

I grabbed a clip and put up my hair, and slid into the bath, feeling the oil-soft water against my skin. Delicious.

I ran through the recipe for tomorrow’s show. I was going to do Muffin for Two that Haven and Ash always swore cured their hangovers. Feeling smug about not having hangovers when your girlfriends were suffering was one of the best things about being sober.

Someone knocked on my door and I sat up straight in the water. Shit. I’d not ordered room service. Who could it be?

I climbed out of the bath and pulled on a robe. There was another knock. “Coming,” I replied.

I opened the door to a man with a trolley covered in plates. He clearly had the wrong room.

“Room service.” He grinned at me.

I smiled back. “I didn’t order room service.”

Ignoring me, he pushed the trolley into my room, nearly knocking me over in the process. Perhaps he hadn’t heard me.

He worked quickly, unloading six silver-dome-covered plates onto the small dining table in the corner of the room.

“Sir, I didn’t order this.”

“Yes, it was ordered,” he replied. Jesus, I’d have to call room service to explain. I didn’t seem to be getting through to him. He handed me a cream envelope, bowed and scurried away, pushing his trolley.

The envelope was addressed to Miss (I hope) Beth Harrison (in case you’d forgotten your first name isn’t Airport). I grinned.

Inside was a card.

My Sweet Beth,

Good luck tomorrow. I hope this provides some inspiration. I hope to see you before you leave.

Dylan James

My heart tightened. I was pretty sure I wasn’t leaving the US without my seventh orgasm courtesy of Dylan James.

I lifted the lid of one of the silver domes and found what I was expecting: the most spectacular cakes in Illinois.

I grabbed my phone.

Beth: Unexpectedly, I have a great deal of cake to eat. Care to help me finish it off tomorrow night?

I’d barely had time to take a breath before a response buzzed into my hand.