Page 11 of Betting on her Best Friend
“Well, Blondie,” Mark said, “what do you say we get out of here, and I show you the view from my suite?”
They’d been talking for about twenty minutes. Mostly about how he got his job as a model. And the different places he’d traveled to as a model. And the famous people he’d met as a model. It was amazing how narcissism could take a guy from a ten down to a solid three.
Despite his cover-worthy body and good looks, Alyssa was no longer interested in spending the night with Pirate Mark.
“The hell she will,” came from a familiar deep voice behind her.
Dylan! Excitement rushed through her. She spun around, but her gasp choked off her greeting as her hands flew to her mouth. For several seconds, her gaze roamed over him like the light beneath the copy machine glass. Down…and up…then down again to make sure the image had time to process.
A leopard print tunic draped across his body from one shoulder and ended mid-thigh in a jagged, asymmetrical line. To further authenticate the Tarzan look, he wore a short necklace made of rawhide and several teeth from something like a gigantic cat, and thick strips of brown leather knotted around his biceps.
Despite the ridiculous costume, Dylan stood in all his six-foot-two glory like a proud warrior: shoulders back, chest out, and fists clenched by his sides. His hazel eyes appeared closer to stone gray and just as hard.
Her immediate thoughts splintered in different directions. Part of her wondered why he’d come to the convention. Part of her wondered why his usual laid-back disposition had turned all Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.
But mostly, she wondered why on earth he looked like he’d entered via swinging vine while yodeling to his jungle friends.
“What,” she began and pointed at the outrageous outfit, “is that?”
“It’s a Tarzan costume.” His tone was flat, but his eyes dared her to make fun of him.
Alyssa bit the insides of her cheeks in an effort to tamp down the smile working hard to break through her resolve. Clearing her throat to compose herself better, she said, “Yes, I can see that. I meant, why are you wearing it?”
Mark, who apparently wasn’t fazed by Dylan’s death stare, stepped up beside her. “The newbie models always get last pick of the costumes. Plus, he was late, so that’s two strikes against him.” An unfriendly twist of Mark’s lips ripped away what little he had left of his sex appeal quicker than a stripper yanking off his Velcro pants. “Maybe you’ll score something cooler next year, bro.”
“Wait,” Alyssa said, “you think he’s a—”
“You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take fashion advice from a guy wearing a puffy-sleeved shirt, hoop earrings, and more eyeliner than the woman he’s trying to pick up. Besides,” Dylan said, nodding at Alyssa, “I think the lady’s proved you’ve got no business giving advice on scoring anyway, Captain Hooker.”
Alyssa’s jaw fell slack. She’d never seen Dylan behave this way. Like, ever. He sounded like a jealous lover, but that didn’t make any sense. Jealousy implied he had romantic feelings for her, and she’d proven last night she couldn’t even manipulate him into those. If he thought of her as anything, it was probably closer to a little sis—
Sister. She mentally slapped a palm to her forehead. Of course. His brotherly sense of duty must have kicked in when she told him her plan to dabble in the ancient art of one-night stands. That was why he was here looking like he wanted to bury a cover model in the desert for flirting with her.
Of all the high-handed, overbearing—
“What the hell’d you just call me?”
Oh, God, the last thing she needed was to be the cause for the first throwdown in romance-convention history. Temporarily abandoning her frustration with Dylan, she interjected before the good-looking got ugly.
“Mark, I’m so sorry. You’ll have to excuse us. I mean, him. Well, actually both. Him for being rude and us because we need to go. He gets cranky when his blood sugar’s low.” She arched her brows at her friend, encouraging him to play along. “Isn’t that right, Dylan?”
He crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “No.”
Pretending he hadn’t just negated her last statement, she clapped her hands together and said, “Okay then, let’s go find you some juice. Or a Snickers. I hear those really satisfy. Then again, your issue isn’t hunger so—eep.”
The squeak escaped her throat when Dylan grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in the opposite direction of her suitor. Her cheeks warmed as the people they wove through stared after them. She hated being the center of attention, and if Dylan kept this up, they’d be the entertainment portion of the evening.
At last, they reached the corner of the ballroom, where Dylan promptly placed her. With his feet planted apart and arms crossed, his wide shoulders effectively hid her from curious eyes. She wasn’t sure if it was the skimpy costume or the way he was standing that made him seem so…so big.
Alyssa rarely ever saw him in anything less than jeans and a T-shirt. He’d been overweight as a child until he’d shot up two feet and started playing football in high school and shed most of it. It wasn’t until college when he found a love for kickboxing that all his squishiness was replaced with solid muscle.
No one would ever guess he’d struggled with his weight, but he still seemed to have insecurities about his body. He wasn’t one to walk around shirtless, even in the summer. So, although Alyssa knew he was muscular from the way he felt when she hugged him, she only ever saw his arms and, on the rare occasion he wore a tank, his shoulders. Only now she wondered if she’d ever truly looked at them, because she didn’t remember them being so…well, big.
She rolled her eyes at her own inability to come up with better adjectives than a preschooler. Apparently noticing well-defined muscles made her as intelligent as a teenage boy noticing a set of double D’s. How very primitive of me. Maybe I should be the one wearing a caveman costume.
“Tell me you were not about to go up to that douche’s room.”
She planted her hands on her hips and glared up at him. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business. What the hell are you doing here, Dylan? And why are you in that ridiculous costume pretending to be a cover model?”
