Page 94 of Heartland

Dylan pauses to stick his head into the living room. “Not tonight, honey.”

There’s loud laughter, and several more voices call his name. Miraculously, he ignores them and leads me up the stairs. I think we’re in the clear.

Until we reach the wide landing near the top, and find even more people—two guys and two girls. They’re sitting around on cushions, playing cards.

“Dylan!” they call. “It’s poker night! Sit! We need you.” My heart sinks. They’re practically right outside his bedroom door.

And it’s not like I blame all the people who want his attention. I’m the same way—a little happier every time Dylan walks into a room where I am.

“No way,” Dylan says. “You just want me to play because I suck at poker.”

They all laugh. “We all suck tonight because this deck is missing two cards,” one of the women complains. And then she turns big, brown puppy-dog eyes on Dylan. “Come sit. We were just going to light up.”

Dylan releases my hand and takes a step toward them. And now I know exactly how Kaitlyn felt at parties with Dylan. For the first time ever, I feel like I understand her.

But Dylan doesn’t sit down. He crosses to a built-in bookshelf beside the window. He rummages around for a second and comes up with another deck of cards. He hands it down to the girl with the big brown eyes. “If you smoke, open a window.”

Then he takes my hand again and leads me the short distance to his bedroom door. He opens it slowly, peering inside, as if he’s not sure what he’ll find. But then he turns around and grins at me. “I found it!”

“What?” I ask, following him in.

He shuts the door. “The only quiet place in the house. You never know with Rickie’s parties. Sometimes people help themselves to my room. Come on in.”

“You need a lock,” I say, following him. And then my face heats at the implication.

“They’d probably just use the credit card trick. I know I would, in certain situations.” He gives me a slow grin, which causes butterflies to hit my tummy.

We’re finally alone, although all the urgency is gone. I take a sip of my punch, while Dylan walks over and sits down on his bed. His room is really great, with a window seat at one end, and a messy desk against the wall. “This place is bigger than your room at home,” I point out.

“Right?” he agrees. “Deal of the century.”

I take another sip, feeling a little unsteady. What am I supposed to do right now? “Why is punch called punch, anyway?” I hear myself ask.

Dylan chuckles. “I have no idea, Chass. Do you want me to look it up?”

His eyes are teasing me, so I shake my head. But I don’t know how to get back to where we were before—that heated, impulsive place where anything seems possible.

He swigs his beer and then reaches over to set it on the nightstand. “Come here,” he says simply. Then he crooks a finger and beckons to me.

And I’m across that room in a jiffy.

He takes the cup from my hand and tastes the punch. “Nice.” He sets that on the nightstand, too. “Now come closer.” He tugs my hand. “That’s right. All the way.” Then he scoops me up off the floor.

I end up with my knees on the bed, my hands on his broad shoulders.

“That’s so much better,” he says, stealing a quick kiss. “It’s time for our next tutoring session. I hope to cover a lot of ground tonight.” He gives me a serious look. “What chapter are we on, do you think?”

“There’s no textbook for this,” I choke out.

“But there should be,” he argues. “Last time we kind of skipped right to the advanced sections. Maybe we should flip back to the beginning and cover some of the introductory lessons.”

“Okay?”

He pulls me closer. Our noses are inches apart. “Do you know how many erogenous zones there are on your body?”

“No,” I whisper. “Is there going to be a quiz?”

He shakes his head. “Just lots and lots of homework.”