The Good Luck Sister (Wildstone #1.5)(19)

He’d once been the most important person in her life, so it shouldn’t shock her that she’d been his.

“But you tried. And you made it work for you regardless.”

He shrugged.

“Dylan . . .” She spread her arms wide. “Look at me. I’m not exactly the world-famous artist I thought I’d be.”

“You’ve still got your art,” he said. “And your show in a week now.”

She sucked in a breath of nerves at the reminder. “Yeah.”

“I’m proud of you,” he said. “And now you’re spreading the joy of the art by teaching. You’re doing good things, Tilly. I think you’d be happy if you let yourself be.”

“And how about you?” she asked. “Are you letting yourself be happy?”

“I didn’t. Not for a long time.” He shook his head. “When I first got injured, I was angry. Really angry. And a part of me thought I’d probably turn into my father.”

“You’re never going to be like him,” she said adamantly.

“How do you know?”

“I know.”

He arched a disbelieving brow.

“I just saw you with those kids. They needed this, needed you, and you were amazing with them. If you really have any deep-seated fears of being like your father, take a good look at yourself today.”

He lost a little bit of his remoteness with that and he held out his hand.

She stared at it. “What?”

“Trust me?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation.

He wiggled his fingers and she slipped her hand in his. He then led her out onto the tarmac and toward the Bell, pulling out his phone, calling Ric or Penn to let them know he was going back up with a plus one. Then he got her seated in the co-pilot seat and turned to her, checking her seat belt and handling his own. Then he slid the aviators down back over his eyes. “Ready?” he asked.

“For what?”

He smiled.

When they were in the air, her stomach was in her chest squishing her heart and she sat with her nose pressed up against the window, breathless with wonder.

“You okay?”

She nodded but didn’t take her eyes off the sights. From up here she could see green rolling hills, dotted with lines of grape crops and oaks, outlined on one side by the shiny blue Pacific, white-capped and shimmering brilliantly. “The view, it’s . . . beautiful.”

“Mine’s not bad either.”

She met his gaze and rolled her eyes.

“Too cheesy?” he asked.

“Yes.” But she’d liked it . . .

He pointed out to her left. “That’s Wildstone. Wait for it . . .” A few seconds later, he nodded. “Caro’s Café.”

She saw her mom’s café, and seeing it from an aerial view like this, for some reason her throat became tight. “Wow.”

“You and Quinn kept it,” he said. “And her house.”

“We did.” She kept her eyes to the window. “We thought about selling them a bunch of times, but it’s all we have of her and we like feeling her there.”

“Nothing wrong with holding on to good memories,” he said quietly. “I’ve held on to mine.”

She looked over at him then and they stared at each other for a beat. “Did you ever get into any serious relationships?” she asked quietly. “After me?”

He shook his head. “I saw women here and there, but nothing serious. You?”

She let out a low laugh. “There’s like ten different levels of dating now before you actually date. It’s so confusing to me that it makes me need a nap.”

Thirty minutes later, he brought them in for a smooth landing and turned to her. “Let me unconfused things for you.”

“What?”

Leaning in, he pulled off her headset and let his fingers tighten in her hair. “We’re actually dating. No nap required. Unless you want one, and I’ll be happy to join you.”





Chapter 8




I’m not like other girls, I know what I want for dinner. I’ve been thinking about it since lunch.

—from “The Mixed-Up Files of Tilly Adams’s Journal”




Ten years prior:



“Did you study?” Dylan asked.

In spite of wanting to cry, Tilly smiled at him because he cared about her so much it hurt. “Yes.”

“Good.” He stood and pulled her up. “You’ve got to go home before you get in trouble.”

She stood close to him, very close—the toes of their battered sneakers touched. But since he was so much taller than she was, that was about all that lined up and she ached, ached, to be as tall because then she could feel him, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. Her breathing hitched just thinking about it.

Kiss me, she wished with all her might. Please for once, kiss me . . .

And maybe it was her turn for a miracle because he did. He bent and kissed the top of her head.

“Dylan,” she whispered with all the longing in her heart, which felt like it might burst.

He stilled. “Tee—”

“Please?” she whispered, tipping back her head.