39
SKY
“Mr Pouty Face!”I say.
“I don’t pout.”
“Much.”
Dylan, the rock star, in a TV studio green room, stands in a corner, arms crossed as he watches the other chat show guests on the monitors. He pokes his tongue out, and I reciprocate.
Dressed in a black shirt, T-shirt beneath, he plays with his rings, twisting them around. The only ring he wears on his left hand now is his wedding band, and doesn’t always wear the others he did when we first met. The star buried by his day-to-day life is with me; I’d forgotten the way people react to him until I watched how they behaved in his presence today. He’ll always silence any room he walks into and never lose the effect he has.
My stomach flips as I study this Dylan. Not “daddy Dylan” but full on sexy as hell, extraordinary man who chose me. The surging need for his hands on me happens more readily the last few weeks. Our trip to the past in Cornwall was the best move for our future.
I shift Rhys onto my hip. “Look, Rhys, daddy has his broody, rock-god look ready for his fans. Reckon you can do the same one day?”
Rhys struggles against me, reaching out for the toys I brought and stacked on the table, so I place him on the floor where he sits and grabs one. Dylan’s first live performance on the popular chat show, and we’re both here, a cheer squad Dylan claims he doesn’t need, but I know he secretly does.
“Did you tell them I don’t want interrogating after the performance?” he asks.
“You’re the last guest.” I point at the other guests on the monitor. “Cole Daniels always has a lot to say. He’ll take up all the time telling salacious stories, and the show will overrun if the host starts quizzing you too. All he’ll do is show your album cover and talk you up.”
Dylan rubs his arm. “Never done this without the boys. Bryn normally does all the talking.”
“Well, you should’ve thought about that before you went solo.”
“I have not gone—” He catches my eye. “Ha ha. But you told the producers, right?”
“Yes. They have strict instructions from your manager not to mention the band.”
“Manager, huh?”
We continue to joke about my new role in his musical life, and each week I’m pulled further into liaising when Dylan doesn’t want to. His earlier attempts to communicate what he wanted to people ended in frustration. I might be the forthright one, but Dylan’s refusal to accept anybody disagreeing with him isn’t helpful when he’s trying to navigate his career.
This also pulls me back into a world outside babies and battles with postnatal depression. I do things at my own pace and on the days I can.
“Yup. And you always thought you’d be the one telling me what to do.”
Dylan approaches and seizes my ass, holding me against his hips. “Is that right?” He kisses along my cheek to my neck, fingers sliding up my leg, sneaking around to my backside. “You know I can get you to do what you’re told, too.”
He knows. Dylan always bloody knows the power he has over me. I slap his hand away. “Do you want footage of this on the internet?”
“Who says there’re cameras?”
“Who says there isn’t?” I incline my head. “And there’s your son....”
Rhys sits nearby, whacking a plastic toy against the nearby sofa.
“I guess.” He straightens my skirt. “Later, Mrs Morgan.”
He leaves my blood running hot and knows me well enough to recognise he’s had the effect he’s intended. Dylan moistens his lips and rakes a leisurely gaze along my body, before his darkened eyes meet mine.
“Stop that,” I whisper.
Dylan smacks my ass with a laugh, then glances up to check the time again. “I really don’t wanna do this.”
“Jeez, I understand why your promotion company gets pissed off with you.” I smooth his shirt with both hands. “The public have been waiting for this.”