Page 60 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

Pulling his stare from the alien nightscape, he looked for a phone. The sounds of sirens, car horns and constant traffic wafting up from the streets below was nothing like the silence of Farpoint at night, a silence broken only by the occasional song of crickets and frogs in the nearby billabong. It only furthered Dylan’s sense of being out of whack.

In the wrong place, wanting the wrong woman, in the wrong time. You shoulda stayed home.

Spying what he was after, he crossed to the paisley sofa and picked up a paint- and clay-splattered cordless phone. It only took him two goes to correctly recall the prefix needed for dialing Australia from the U.S. and then, as he stood staring out the window, the dial tone clicked and a familiar woman’s voice said, “Hello. Farpoint Creek.”

Monet didn’t mean to eavesdrop. She’d sequestered herself away in her bedroom, as far from her bathroom as possible, and called Annie’s cell over and over again so she didn’t have to hear the shower running. If she heard the shower running she knew exactly what would happen. Her thoroughly visual mind would present her with thoroughly detailed images of Dylan, thoroughly naked and wet, separated from her by only a few feet of floor space and one bathroom door.

It hadn’t helped. For one, Annie hadn’t answered a single time, damn it. For another, Monet’s mind had done exactly what she hadn’t wanted it to and by the fourth unsuccessful attempt to call her best friend, images of Dylan—stripped of his clothes but not his rugged cowboy sexiness—filled her head.

She’d sat on her bed, wishing to God Annie would answer her phone as she stared fixedly at the wall, trying desperately tonotthink about the naked man in her shower.

Now, standing at her bedroom door, watching Dylan Sullivan talk quietly on the landline phone in the middle of her studio, she realized she was in trouble. Big trouble.

She was sexually attracted to Annie’s cowboy. A lot.

His deep voice stroked her senses, the words too low for her to understand but not low enough she couldn’t discern his Australian accent. She loved the way he sounded. She loved the way her name sounded on his lips. She could happily sit and listen to him recite the alphabet and by the time he reached Z, which he would no doubt pronounce aszed, she would be so turned on, all it would take was one single flick of her clit and she’d come.

God, she was pathetic. And a coward. If nothing else, she still hadn’t addressed the kiss back in the gallery. She had to assure Dylan it wouldn’t happen again. She remembered how hesitant he’d been to step out of the elevator. As if he were worried she was going to jump his bones the second he was in her apartment.

“Okay,” Dylan’s voice grew a tad louder and Monet swallowed, noticing his back was straighter, his shoulders squarer. “Okay, yeah. I’ll do that.”

Whoever he was talking to on the other end said something that made Dylan shake his head. “No. I know. I promise.”

There was another pause, during which Monet realized her heart was thumping so hard in her chest she could hear it, and then Dylan said, “Love you too.”

Monet’s mouth went dry.

Who was he talking to? Annie? Had he just told Annie he loved her?

Guilt lanced through Monet. Sharp and cold and absolute. Dylan and Annie had spent so long chatting, at least three months getting to know each other. The last thing Monet wanted was to be attracted to him. She wasn’t that kind of friend. Shewasn’t.

Which is why she had to tell Dylan now he needed to find a hotel. That was the smartest, safest course of action. As soon as he got off the phone, she would help him find a hotel, call him a cab and maybe take him out for breakfast tomorrow. Maybe.

When he placed the phone on one of the tables beside him and let out a ragged sigh, Monet swallowed again. She watched him stare out the large window overlooking Central Park and lean one hand on its double-glazed expanse, his other hand dragging through his hair. For a surreal moment Monet wondered where his hat was, and then he was lifting his head and his gaze found her in the window’s muted reflection.

Oh boy.

He turned to face her. “I finally reached home.”

The statement was said with relaxed calm, but tension coiled through him. Monet could see it in the way he stood, the stiffness of his shoulders, the way he braced his legs apart.

She nodded, walking into her studio before stopping at the old sofa. “I heard.”

“Annie’s safely in Australia.”

“I gathered.”

His jaw bunched. “Apparently she and my brother have hit it off.”

Monet’s pulse quickened. “Have they?”

Dylan nodded. “Mum told me not to worry. To enjoy New York while I’m here.”

“Did she?” Monet blinked. “Wait. What? Who told you?”

“Mum. I was talking to my mum.”

Monet’s heart tripped over itself. She didn’t think it was possible, but there it was. Her heart, already racing at a stupid pace, skipped a beat. “Your mom? Yourmomtold you she loved you?”