Wildest Dreams (Forbidden Love, #2)

by L.J. Shen

DYLAN

There were worse ways to be greeted in your own home than by catching your mother spread-eagle, plastered against the glass backyard door, getting mauled by her fiancé. But I couldn’t think of any of them as I stood at the entrance tightening my fist around the door handle, fighting—and losing—a war against my gag reflex. “Yes, Marty! Yes. Right there, dio mio—don’t stop.” Her muffled cries, blurred by his palm as he tried to make sure they wouldn’t wake the toddler upstairs, trickled into my brain, burning themselves into my core memory. My knee-jerk reaction was to scream, “MY EYES, MY EYES!” à la Phoebe Buffay and charge out of the house, town, state, and planet with my arms flailing in the air. Unfortunately, I couldn’t do that. First, because my three-year-old was asleep upstairs and I wasn’t going to leave her behind. Second, because at the age of twenty-six, I still lived with my mama, albeit in the gorgeous mini mansion my brother had built for her. She had more right to this house than I did. Third? Get it, Mama. Props to you for living your best life.

My phone danced inside the flimsy front pocket of my diner uniform. The outfit consisted of a pale pink minidress short enough to moonlight as a napkin and a checked apron with an array of indistinguishable stains, from tomato sauce to coffee, vomit, and grease. What can I say? It was a life of luxurious extravagance, but someone had to live it.

My only boyfriends in the past four years had been battery-operated and made of silicone.

“Row,” Cal chided, “I’m trying to eat here.” “So am I.” Oh god. Would Child Protective Services intervene for a twenty-six-year-old? “I just caught Mama and Marty boning each other against the backyard door,” I blurted out. This is why you’re bussing tables and not keeping government secrets, Dylan. “Holy shit,” Cal—or Dot, because of the cluster of freckles on her nose and cheeks, proof God had sprinkled her with magic dust—said. “I mean, go Zeta. She deserves some action, but also…sorry for your loss.” Cal snort-laughed. “You know, of appetite, libido, et cetera.” “It gets worse.” I mustered a smile, mainly so she could hear it in my voice. “They’re also going to leave a mark, and you know I’m the one who cleans the windows around here.”

“Didn’t she know you were coming?” “I was supposed to do a double shift, but it was a slow night, so Dahlia sent me home early.” “Where are you now?” Cal asked. “Seeking refuge in the comfort of Jimmy.” I reached to wipe a thick layer of dust from the dashboard. “But the driver’s door just fell off, so I’m not even cozy and warm.” “This is definitely not your day,” my bestie said sympathetically. “I’m sending cake.” Pause. “And a charger for your Magic Wand, because I know you keep losing yours.” Row gagged in protest in the background. Good. I’d had to see and hear him defiling my childhood best friend on a monthly basis ever since they got together. The least I could do was inflict my own damage back. “Chargers have legs,” I protested, forcing out a laugh that felt metallic and rusty in my throat. “There’s no other explanation as to why they keep disappearing. So are you in Cannes now?”

“Yup. We’re going back to London tomorrow morning, probably for a good stretch of time. Row is opening a new restaurant in Edinburgh. He’d like me and Serafina close by.” Serafina was my niece. She’d just turned two and had her mom’s huge blue eyes, her dad’s wild onyx curls, and the neighboring opera singer’s lungs. The girl could scream her way to a catastrophic earthquake. “Dylan…” Cal hesitated. “I have an idea.”

“We’re going to need someone to house-sit our New York apartment,” Cal plunged on, ignoring our antics. “Why don’t you do it? You’ve always wanted to live in New York.” Yes, but that was before. Before I realized I’d never go to college. Before I got knocked up and had a kid at twenty-three. Before the baby daddy left me publicly for the town’s crooked mayor, with whom he had an affair. “Dude, what are you talking about? I can’t afford life in New York.” I barked out a laugh. “What’s to afford?” Row butted into the conversation, his voice dark, gruff, and perpetually sneering. “We’re going to hire someone anyway. You won’t pay rent, because you’ll live in our apartment. Groceries are taken care of—they’ll arrive at your door twice a week. You just need to clean up the fridge and the pantry. Utilities are also included. I’ll throw in some admin work for you and put you on the company’s payro—” “No.” A panicky squeak wrestled its way out of my throat. “I don’t want to be another nepo hire of yours.”

“I don’t know how to break it to you, Dyl, but your life circumstances don’t allow you to have this kind of ego,” Row quipped dispassionately. “Take the job.” Cal gasped, and I heard her swat him. “Row, what an asshole.” “Promise I’ll get to say that later tonight, and I’ll buy her a new car to go with the apartment,” Row murmured.

“I don’t want your New York apartment,” I ground out. “I wouldn’t be able to afford childcare, and I’m not working an imaginary job and living a kept woman’s life at twenty-six.” I was no sugar baby. I was carving my own path in life, even if I was doing a messy job of it. “You’re being stubborn and unreasonable,” Row accused. “You’re being cocky and rude.” Row snorted. “That can’t be news.” “Your love is suffocating me,” I said. “Your attitude is exasperating us all,” he shot back. “Please,” Cal interjected. “Just…think about it, okay? You can apply for jobs there. Maybe something in marketing?”

“We’ll figure out childcare for Grav. There are plenty of options. You need to get out of there, Dylan,” Cal said softly. “Your job there is done. Your mom no longer needs you. She’s engaged, for crying out loud. Time to take care of yourself.”

“No.” I bit down on my lower lip, calculating in my head how much it’d cost to fix Jimmy’s damn door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been over ten minutes. They should be done by now. I must retire to my fainting couch.” “If you’re referring to the sofa in the conservatory…don’t. Row and I christened it last time we stayed over.” “Cal,” I barked out. “Also, the entire kitchen, guest room, and every shower in the house,” Row informed me lazily. “Really, stay away from the whole fucking house if the idea of people porking on its surfaces annoys you.”

I put my everything into Gravity. I wanted her to know she could be anything she wanted.

Gravity was the thing that kept me anchored. The steady ground beneath my feet.

What was she dreaming about? What would she be when she grew up? In my dreams—the few I allowed myself to have these days—I imagined kicking down door after door for her, helping her reach every height and goal her heart desired. Could I really give her all that here, in the small town of Staindrop, Maine? The same Staindrop that had one school, one daycare, zero prospects, and barely any residents? Even the new mall and flashy hotel they built a couple years ago hadn’t made the quaint beach town any more habitable than it was. What if Grav ended up like me, stuck in a place she wasn’t happy in, settling for what was present instead of what was possible?

Sleep tight, my sweet girl, my heart sang. Mommy loves you.

It was ridiculous, but the final straw that broke my back was when I shoved my panties down twenty minutes later to pee for the first time in eight hours. I was sitting on the toilet staring down at my frumpy cotton panties and I realized I didn’t own a pair in any color other than beige. And that I had no real lingerie. No fun clothes anymore. No heels I could wear out. No friends to go out with. My cheap, tattered underwear was a perfect metaphor of my entire life. Pale, insignificant, an afterthought—something uninspiring and sad and practical. With a pang, I realized I wanted…well, more.

The last time I made an error of judgment, it was in the form of a broken condom while propped against the arm of the couch, cheek pressed into the top of a cushion. It had resulted in my daughter. Even though I loved Gravity more than life itself and would never change the outcome of that so-called mistake, the trajectory of my life had changed completely because of it. I’d become a coward, too afraid of making mistakes. But this was a mistake. This town. This job. This aimless life. I deserved more, and so did Grav. I could always come back here. But something wild and rebellious and newly alive in me told me I wouldn’t. That once I broke free, I wouldn’t stop running. I felt like I’d just woken up from a years-long coma. Like I’d just come up for air after sitting at the bottom of a muddy pool.

“Dot?” “Please tell me you’re accepting our offer.” “I’m accepting your offer.” “Attagirl.”

DYLAN

“Shit, shit, fuck, shit.” I banged my forehead against the steering wheel, my ponytail falling apart to match the rest of my life. In the rearview mirror, I watched as Grav’s mouth hung open, her eyes as big and wide as the moon. She was buckled into her car seat, hugging Mr. Mushroom, her chubby penis-looking pink stuffie. She was hopelessly attached to the thing. A gift from Cal to me that had somehow ended up being my toddler’s transition object. “Mommy!” she chided with a gasp. “Grandma will be mad when she hears.” “I’ll let you drink Mommy’s soda if you don’t tell her.” I bribed her with a can of Coke. “Okay!” Our fresh start in New York had started off with a broken-down vehicle that couldn’t even roll to Row’s Fifth Avenue building and a line of twenty cars honking and yelling at me.

“Mommy, I wanna get out,” Gravity moaned, her pink Skechers kicking the passenger seat in front of her. “In a minute, honey.” “I’m boooored.” More honking. More profanity.

“Mommy!” Gravity shrieked louder. “I wanna get out. Out. Out. Out.” “Just a sec, sweetie.” “I want soda!” Shakily, I pulled my phone out of my back pocket. I couldn’t call Mama or Row—I was desperate to do this on my own. Desperate not to be this needy, flailing, train wreck of a woman who failed at everything she touched. I called the insurance company instead, my whole body breaking out in hives. This was a mistake. I should never have come here. Seriously, what was I thinking? I couldn’t even manage my life while I lived with my mother in my hometown; New York City was twenty sizes too big for me.

waiting for a representative to answer my call, when Jimmy’s back door flew open. It took me a second to register what was happening. Grav had had enough after the eight-hour road trip, unbuckled her seat by herself, and was now sliding out, falling flat on her ass on the busy road and rolling into the next lane. “Jesus!” I shrieked hysterically, dropping my phone to the ground. My daughter rose up on wobbly knees, a frightened expression stamped on her face. She stumbled straight into the moving cars, looking for me through a haunted, terrorized gaze. Seeing my entire life flash before my eyes in the moments my legs carried me toward her, I desperately resisted the urge to pounce on her and scare her straight into the rush-hour traffic. Suddenly—and seemingly out of nowhere—a tall, broad, thunder of a human scooped Gravity up with one hand, tucked her under their armpit like she was a football, and zipped to the sidewalk to safety. I dropped to my knees and coughed out all the air trapped in my lungs. She could have died. She almost did. Because of my stupid lack of attention.

“Where’s the candy?” His deep, dark drawl rumbled. No baby talk for him. “I know you have some. Don’t play.” “I don’t!” Gravity giggled, trying to kick the air, arms flailing. “I ate it all on the way here.” Snitch. “I suppose I’ll just have to eat you then.” Another fit of giggles. “Nooo, Uncle Rhyrand. Mommy won’t let you! She woves me!”

Rhyland Coltridge being my brother’s best friend. A man-whore. A cocky bastard who knew he was God’s best creation to date. A debauched, selfish piece of work clad in a Prada suit. Too bad that piece of work was a masterpiece.

And we hated each other. Actually, he couldn’t muster enough shits to have any kind of strong feelings about me or anyone else. It was one of the reasons I detested him. He was living, breathing proof that you could live with no heart inside your chest.

He wasn’t pretty-boy sexy. He was half-Viking, half-Hozier sexy.

“Pull yourself together, Casablancas. Your kid could’ve died.” He sneered. “While you’re at it, take her back. I’m not a babysitter.” That was all it took for me to officially and finally lose it. Not the eight-hour drive, punctuated by ten pee-pee stops, sponsored by Starbucks caffeine and suspiciously cold gas-station hot dogs. Not the fact that Jimmy had died on me ten feet from the parking garage. Not that I was broke, jobless, single, and raising a kid, even though half the time I felt like I was still one myself. And not even the realization he was going to be my neighbor, because Row and Cal’s apartment was a floor below Rhyland’s place. They’d planned it that way so they could always be close.

“She was strapped in. It’s not my fault she’s smart enough to figure out how to unbuckle. We had a terrible journey here. My car died. It’s blocking traffic. The insurance company didn’t answer. I haven’t slept in three days. I don’t even have the money to fix this car—” “I take it you’re Row’s latest charity case and will be living in his apartment,” Rhyland interrupted brusquely, twisting his wrist to glance at his watch. He looked eager to move on with his day. Like he had something better to do than grab a first-row seat to my breakdown. God, I hated him. So much it hurt. “I’m not anyone’s charity.” “Don’t knock it before you try it. Becoming a stripper named Charity might be the answer to all your financial problems.” “You’re a pig,” I snarled. He winked. “Oink, oink.” And then, because apparently setting each other on fire was only on my agenda, not his, he added, “Come on. Let’s get that car out of people’s way.” “I don’t want your help.” “What a coincidence. I don’t want to help.”

“Unfortunately, you’re my best friend’s baby sister, and I have some level of decorum not to leave you and your child to get stabbed by a cab driver.”

“Is there a reason why the child is holding a penis?” He flicked his gaze to Gravity, who was hugging Mr. Mushroom on the suitcase while she watched her show intently.

“It’s not a penis. It’s Mr. Mushroom,” I corrected haughtily. He gave me a flat look punctuated with a half-moon smirk that threatened to light my panties aflame. Despite my aversion to him now, I’d always had a thing for Rhyland Coltridge. A happy-to-get-on-all-fours-for-you-at-a-moment’s-notice kind of thing. Which obviously didn’t help matters.

“Anyway, thanks for the help. You can go back to being New York’s favorite fuckboy.”

“Are you shaming me for being a sex worker?” He arched a thick eyebrow, one shade darker than his hair. “No. I’m shaming you for being a douchebag.” “Why? History dictates it’s your favorite taste in men.” He chuckled brusquely.

This didn’t contradict my desire for him. I also desired three Valiums and an entire mango key lime cheesecake and still knew they had the power to destroy me.

“I don’t think there’s a word for how I feel for you, but it’s somewhere between disdain and total boredom.” “Indifferent,” I offered charitably. He snapped his fingers and pointed at me. “See? And everyone thinks you’re just a pretty face. Dylan Casablancas, a walking dictionary, ladies and gents.” “All I took from this is that you think I’m pretty, and while I agree, you don’t stand a chance. I’m done dating losers.” “That’s a bit of a pickle, sweetheart.” “Why?” “I doubt anyone who isn’t a loser would have you.”

“Well, ain’t that a sight? Rhyland Coltridge, I had no idea you were a taken man. With a kid, no less. That definitely gives you brownie points in my book.” What? I opened my mouth to clarify that he wouldn’t find any love lost between Rhyland and me, not even if he used a microscope, when I heard the latter chuckle good-naturedly. “Never judge a book by its cover, Bruce.” To my horror, what followed was Rhyland’s arm wrapping around my shoulder. I froze into a statue, my eyes taking over my entire face. What in the name of Taylor Swift was going on here? “And who do we have here?” Bruce fussed over Gravity, who dangled her feet from the suitcase, hugging Mr. Mushroom. Thankfully, she was squeezing the stuffie hard enough that it was indistinguishable. “That’s Gravity.” Rhyland ignored the way I slapped his touch away, smoothly removing his arm from my shoulder and picking my daughter up, holding her close to his chest. He grinned down at her. Gravity’s eyes were still obliviously glued to the screen. “A.k.a. the light of my life.”

“Bruce Marshall.” The man offered me his hand with a warm smile. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. And you are?” “Not a ma’am.” I untangled my arms to take his hand in mine. “And also not Mrs. Coltridge, thank God.”

“She means not yet,” he clarified. “But as you can tell, we can’t wait to get married.” Bruce’s gaze dropped to my bare fingers. “I ain’t seeing no ring.” What was Rhyland doing? More importantly, why was he doing it? Rhyland gave him a leisurely clap on the back. “Don’t spoil all my surprises, Brucey boy. She asked for something different than I gave her. She’s a hard woman to please.” “No,” I drawled. “You just suck in bed.”

“Gravity’s not mine,” Rhyland hurried to explain, grabbing her from me. “Although she feels like mine in every way that matters.” What a load of baloney. Rhyland couldn’t stand children and, in fact, always tried to be on the other side of the room when Gravity and Serafina were around. Even Gravity gave him a “do I know you, sir?” glare. Bruce turned to cast his warm, approving glance on Rhyland, nodding slowly. “Didn’t peg you for the kind of man who’d take on extra responsibilities if he doesn’t have to.” “Well, there’s a lot you still don’t know about me and my character,”

“Absolutely right, sir. There is no bigger fan of monogamy and children than me,” Rhyland clucked, his voice honeyed menace. “All righty.” Bruce rubbed his hands together. “I’ll go get myself comfortable in that fancy coffee shop you recommended and have me one of them uppity pastry thingies, and you help your lil miss get her suitcases upstairs and join me. No rush, yeah? Family first.” “I’ll try to rip myself away from them.” Rhyland sighed exaggeratedly. “But it’ll be hard.” “I can always throw you out the window to speed things up,” I suggested cheerfully.

“We need to talk.” He hoisted the duffel bags onto his shoulders, herding the rest of my suitcases toward the main entrance of the building. It was a prewar mid-rise with stunning white arches and columns. The lobby had gray-veined checkered black-and-white limestone, and the unmanned front desk and mailboxes were made of sleek, black-painted wood. The elevators were old-school, a black wrought iron cage surrounding the wooden doors. The place had a European quality to it, and for the first time since I’d started this journey, I got giddy. “Please.” I massaged my temples. “No more talking.” “Mommy has a headache,” Gravity murmured sweetly,

“Mommy needs to do Uncle Rhyland a big, big favor.” Rhyland’s wolfish glare pinned me with deliberate foul intent, his raspy voice running down my spine like sweet summer rain. Our eyes met, and like a lit match, they sparked the entire lobby on fire. “And she’d better make the right choice for a change.”

RHYLAND

“Fuck that,” Dylan mouthed noiselessly over Gravity’s head, enunciating each vowel between those luscious lips of hers. “There’s my delicate flower.” I smirked mockingly, trying to swallow down the cue ball of hysteria wedged in my throat. Bruce Marshall thought my best friend’s baby sister and I were together. It didn’t take a genius to see he’d gotten a hard-on at the idea. Me. A family man. Accounted for. The first sign of interest from him so far. Which meant the charade must continue. I couldn’t blow this chance. “I’m not pretending to be your fiancée, Rhyland,” Dylan clarified. “Just…” I massaged my temples. “Listen before you slam the idea, okay?”

I’d spent my entire adolescence actively avoiding this girl, only to get a phone call yesterday from Row that his baby sister was moving into the building. He asked me to watch over her, probably because he wasn’t aware of how closely I’d watched her while growing up. Oh, watching Dylan wasn’t a punishment by any stretch of the imagination. It was listening to her that made me want to hurl myself directly onto the tracks of a moving freight train.

I had done something to cause her to hate me, but that was fucking eons ago. What was with the elephant memory? I couldn’t remember what I’d had for breakfast this morning. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. The blond from my hot yoga class.

“Bruce is a potential investor for my start-up app, App-date. If I secure his investment, it’ll allow me a monstrous budget, a mouthwatering one-off paycheck, not to mention connections. Marshall is a very powerful guy. You might know him from Shark Tank? The last season?” I glanced at her hopefully. She pretended to look over her shoulder. “Oh, you’re talking to me? I thought you were talking to a boomer who actually does watch broadcast stations.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Her frown smoothed out, and she grabbed the Target purse from her shoulder, rummaging through it and slapping a five-dollar bill into my hand. “Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.” She fucking tipped me. That just happened. I lied. I wasn’t indifferent to her. I wanted to kill her. Slowly. Methodically. Over the course of a few days.