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Dylan abandoned his sullen posture, sitting up, looking at Clay. “You want my opinion?” He pressed his hand to his chest as if he couldn’t believe it.
Clay snorted. “I absolutely want to hear from a brilliant artist who’s just had critics jump all over him. I can’t fix that for you, but I can help you find ways to fix it for yourself.”
Dylan’s shoulders grew straighter, and the lines of his face appeared stronger. He seemed to mature right in front of her. As though Clay asking for his opinion was more important than what people thought of his artwork.
They bandied ideas back and forth, not like a successful man in his thirties and a teenager, but like equals. Though she added a few comments, she wanted this to be between them.
Something transformed inside her as she saw Clay in this new light. She adored his idealism, but she loved how good he was with Dylan, listening intently, jumping up to add things to the file he’d created.
He’d actually listened to her and acted on what she said. Clay was a doer. The moment he realized she had a point, he’d acted, making plans even while she’d been at home working on ideas for the mural.
She ordered takeout, and they talked while they ate. Watching them, her heart felt so full.
Finally, Dylan rose. “Holy heck, man, I’m drained.” He mock-glared at Clay. “You took every idea right out of my head and there’s nothing left.”
Clay clapped his shoulder. “Get some rest.”
Then, before she registered that he was moving, Dylan hugged her. “Thanks.”
She cupped his face. “You did really good today.”
He laughed. Here was the Dylan of yesterday instead of the Dylan of this morning who’d blown through his studio, tearing up all his hard work.
He stepped back. “Are you coming to the birthday party on Sunday?”
“Is it your birthday?” She’d thought that was three months away.
Dylan shook his head, his hair flying.
“It’s a Maverick party for all the kids,” Clay explained. “Paige and Evan’s twins are a year old, and Jorge and Noah are turning eight. We’re holding a party at Dane’s Napa resort.” A smile, as beautiful as the sun shining down on a new day, spread across his face. “The entire Maverick family, including all the Harringtons, will be there.” He smacked his forehead. “Why didn’t I think of that? Of course you’re invited.”
Her heart seemed to seize in her chest. This wasn’t a business meeting or takeout dinners over talks about San Holo’s work. This wasn’t even them in bed.
This was her meeting his family.
“You gotta come.” Then Dylan slapped Clay’s back. “Okay, I gotta crash.” He stomped across the loft floor and slammed the door behind him.
In the sudden quiet, Clay said, “Please. Come with us.”
Oh no. She was falling for him. She loved what he’d done with Dylan. She admired his idealism and how he took care of his artists and his friends. She felt more for him than she would for a man she’d simply fallen into bed with.
Yet she’d been lying her butt off to him the entire time.
She couldn’t have a real relationship with Clay because it would mean telling him she was San Holo. He’d never forgive her for holding back the truth. In fact, she’d never have a real relationship with anyone if the only person she trusted with the truth was Adrian.
She was lying to a man she was falling for. Lying to Dylan, who badly wanted to meet her alter ego.
Guilt welled up from the pit of her stomach and swallowed her entire soul.
Clay was still waiting for an answer about the party. “Everyone would love to meet you. I told them at the family mastermind that you’re the one who got me to see the truth.” He laughed. As if he didn’t have a care in the world. “They want to meet the woman who actually made me change my mind about something.”
Her thoughts whirring, she said numbly, “Sure. That would be great.” She had three days to think of an excuse.
Even as he reached for her, she circled around the coffee table until she was backing toward the door. “I had a really draining day with San.” And with her guilt. “Would you mind terribly if I went back to my place? I just need to crash.” She used Dylan’s words.
Confusion washed over Clay’s face, his brows knitting in a frown. “But?—”
She held out her hand in a plea. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”