Total lie. He’d seen Rachel Carver a whopping one time. They’d had sex at her place, it had been vaguely satisfying, and he hadn’t called her since.
But Aidan didn’t need to know that.
“Speaking of the night we played pool…” Aidan cocked a brow.
“What about it?”
“You barely said two words to me, man. After you left, O’Connor asked me what I’d done to piss you off so bad.”
Shit. Matt had noticed that he’d gone out of his way not to be overly chummy with Aidan?
Of course he did, you moron. You weren’t exactly in stealth mode about it.
“So I’m thinking we cut the bull crap and address the real issue here.” Aidan crossed the room with purposeful strides, stopping when they were two feet apart.
Dylan gulped. Damn, the man looked good tonight. Black trousers, snug gray V-neck, dark hair artfully rumpled. And he smelled good too. Lemon-scented aftershave and a hint of soap.
“You wanna know what that real issue is?” Aidan prompted.
Their gazes met and held. Dylan’s pulse sped up.
With a tiny smirk, Aidan leaned closer, his lips inches from Dylan’s ear. “You want to f**k me.”
The crude observation drove a spike of lust straight into his cock.
Jerking his gaze away, he grabbed the beers from the counter and sidestepped the other man. “Cash is waiting for his beer.”
An annoyed breath sounded from behind.
“So yeah, I’ve been busy. Training, hanging out with Rachel, that kind of stuff.” Christ, why was he still talking? Just get out of the kitchen, man.
“Dylan.”
He took another step to the door.
“Dylan.” A commanding note entered Aidan’s voice.
Drawing a deep breath, he slowly turned around. “What?”
“I want the same damn thing.”
Shock slammed into him like an eighteen-wheeler. For a moment he thought he’d misheard the guy, but the heat glimmering in those dark brown eyes said otherwise.
They watched each other for a moment. The tension in the air intensified, hot and thick, liable to choke him.
“Where the hell is my beer?” Cash yelled from the living room.
Dylan was so grateful for the interruption he nearly wept with joy. “Uh…can’t keep the man waiting,” he mumbled.
And then he hurried out of the kitchen before Aidan could say another word.
Chapter Thirteen
Miranda had just picked up her son from his baseball coach’s house when her cell phone rang. The words Private Caller flashed on the screen. Since her car was an older model that didn’t have that handy Bluetooth system, she had to settle for clicking the speakerphone button.
“Hush, guys,” she told the twins, who were giggling in the backseat. Then she raised her voice and said, “Hello?”
“Miranda? It’s Eric Porter, Catherine’s dad.”
Fucking hell.
She stifled a sigh, wishing she’d let the call go to voice mail. She and Porter had been playing phone tag for the past few weeks. The man was determined to arrange a meeting with her—and only her—but their schedules never seemed to line up.
“Mr. Porter, hi,” she answered. “How was Miami?”
“Please call me Eric. And as for Miami, I’m still here, and it’s wonderful.” He chuckled. “The conference I’m attending, not so much.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Actually, she wasn’t. She didn’t care about this man’s business dealings in any way, shape or form, but he was the father of a student, so she was forced to feign interest.
“I tried to call you last night,” he said. “I couldn’t get through.”
She stopped at a red light and checked the rearview mirror to make sure the twins weren’t causing trouble, but Sophie was quietly playing with her doll and Jason was flipping through a stack of baseball cards.
She returned her attention to the aggravating phone call. “I was bartending last night. As I mentioned before, I have another job, so I’m usually out of touch four nights a week.”
“I understand.”
His voice was so warm and genuine she felt bad about all those times she’d cursed the man. “I assume you’re calling so we can figure out another time to meet.” She injected some warmth into her own voice.
He chuckled again. “I’m hoping we can actually make it happen this time. I’d like to discuss Cat’s future with the school and hear your thoughts about whether she has what it takes to pursue dance as a career.”
If you overlooked the borderline-annoying persistence, Miranda had to admit that his eagerness to be involved in his kid’s life was admirable.
“What’s your schedule like next week?” he asked. “Next Sunday maybe?”
She thought about it. “I teach two morning classes on Sunday, and then I have plans with my children for the afternoon. I’m back at the school at five to teach another class, and that usually runs until about seven.”
“Can I interest you in dinner then?”
Dinner? She’d been hoping for a quick chat in the studio after the lesson wrapped up.
“Um…”
“There’s a little bistro right down the street from the school. I imagine you’ll be hungry after class, so we can grab a quick bite.”
She hesitated again. The twins would be at home with Kim, so she supposed she could ask the babysitter to stay for an extra hour, hour and a half. She didn’t particularly want to have dinner with the man, but it could potentially be good for business. According to Elsa, Porter was incredibly wealthy, and that meant he had wealthy friends who could afford to pay for dance lessons for their kids.