Page 77 of Crossed Wires: The Complete Series

Dylan laughed. “Farpoint’s too bloody far from the ocean for seafood, mate. But I do a mean lemon and lime grilled chicken.”

With another laugh and a nodded farewell and Happy Thanksgiving wish to Monet, the officer left, directing the dissipating parade crowd off the road with a firm voice and two widespread arms.

“Small bloody world, eh?” Dylan commented, turning his head to give Monet a grin.

She narrowed her eyes. “So let’s just get this straight. You shoulder-barge a New York cop and then he’s your best friend? I’m beginning to think you’re a figment of my imagination, Dylan Sullivan. Something my mind cooked up after seeing Hugh Jackman on Leno one too many times. Or Chris Hemsworth. Or Russell Crowe.”

Dylan tapped her on the nose, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. “Love, if I’m the best your imagination can do, as an artist, you’re in serious trouble.”

Monet laughed. “God, I love you.”

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. However, it wasn’t what she’d said that made her belly twist and her cheeks fill with heat. It washowshe’d said it. It was meant to be a silly, flippant throwaway line to express how much she enjoyed his sense of humor. Instead, it was a declaration, spoken with open, truthful affection. She heard it and, by the way his eyes darkened with unreadable tension, so did Dylan.

“Dylan,” she began, her heart thumping way too fast and way too hard in her throat. “I didn’t mean?—”

“C’mon.” Dylan’s voice was a husky murmur. He gave a gentle nod to the left. “Let’s get back home. That leg of lamb in the fridge isn’t going to roast itself.”

They walked back to Monet’s apartment in relaxed silence, their fingers threaded, their shoulders brushing together. Monet enjoyed every minute. And yet at the same time, the neednotto fill the minutes with senseless, inane chatter only further emphasized what she knew she couldn’t deny anymore.

She was in love with Dylan. She didn’t just like him. She wasn’t just attracted to him. She was in love with him.

Five days and she was completely, irrevocably in love.

Which left her pretty much up the proverbial creek without even a toothpick to use as the proverbial paddle.

Dammit.

Two blocks from her apartment, their fingers no longer threaded, their arms curled around each other’s backs, her head resting on his shoulder and the leaves of Central Park’s boundary trees falling around them like a gentle golden-red shower, her cell phone rang.

She bit back a muttered curse, digging the annoying device from her handbag. “Hello?”

“Ms. Carmichael?” an unfamiliar voice said on the other end. “This is Dimitri Gonano from Qantas Airlines. I’m calling to inform you that Mr. Sullivan’s luggage has been located. For your convenience, we’ve already dispatched delivery to…”

The man may have said Monet’s address, but she really couldn’t hear him that well. Not when her blood was suddenly roaring in her ears and her pulse was thumping in her neck.

Dylan’s luggage was found. Which meant he had no further reason to stay in New York after tonight.

None at all.

Chapter8

Dylan had never been so unsettled to see a man holding a duffel bag.

He regarded the poised and polished concierge from beneath the brim of his hat, knowing he was supposed to step forward and retrieve his once-lost luggage from the man but finding it too bloody difficult to do so.

Once he took the worn, frayed canvas handles it meant he couldn’t pretend anymore.

Pretend what? That the only reason you weren’t heading back to Australia was a couple of pairs of old jeans, a few shirts and your toothbrush?

“According to the Qantas representative,” the concierge said, holding out the beat-up old bag, “it went to New Delhi.” Dylan could see him flicking confused glances between him and Monet, as if wondering why no one was leaping to take the bag. “I suspect it’s been on quite an adventure, Mr. Sullivan.”

The sound of his name finally broke the paralysis gripping Dylan. That and the increasing worry on the concierge’s face.

Dylan gave himself a bloody good mental kick. It wasn’t the man’s fault the bag had turned up. Nor his fault Dylan had fallen in love with Monet.

“Thanks, mate.” Dylan took the bag from the concierge’s hand with a wide smile. His pulse thumped hard in his neck. “Thought I was going to need to buy myself some more city threads.”

Beside him, Monet laughed. To Dylan’s ears it sounded just as tight as his chest felt.