A Royal Deception

Season 1 - Chapter Two

Dylan's eyes were just as intoxicating as I'd remembered, but his shoulders had gotten more broad, if that was possible. I could tell he was enjoying watching me take him in, and I let him. I wanted him to know my intentions — and that the last thing I wanted to do was talk about the past.

"I owe you an apology," he began, and I groaned aloud.

"Seriously?" I came crashing back down to Earth, my great play for meaningless sex falling apart in a torrent of rain and condiments. I could suddenly smell the relish, feel the cold, see myself through his eyes — hair a wet mess, make-up smeared...

"Seriously," he said, giving me a wry smile, "but we also don't have to talk about it. Just needed to say it."

I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.

"Good, this day has been bad enough," I said, flagging down our server.

We were in our old favorite bar from my college days and his...rough days. It was a dive-y English-style pub named the Queen's Head, the kind that's desperate to convince you of its esteemed English roots while offering $4 Jaeger shots and karaoke nights. I still can't remember how we discovered it, but after a night of particularly good wings and whiskey, we declared it 'our' pub. Amara was pissed we didn't offer her part-ownership, but we were young and in...well, what I thought was love. Maybe it was just lust.

For him, at least.

In any case, without me having to ask, he'd driven us here, and we'd settled into our old corner booth with the sagging benches and questionable stain on the table. I couldn't be sure, but I was pretty sure it was the same playlist we'd heard on a loop for countless nights half a decade ago. As bizarre as it was to be back here with Dylan, it was nice to be somewhere familiar.

I ordered my old standard, a pint of the house lager and a shot of Jameson; Dylan skipped the shot and ordered a strange imported pilsner I'd never heard of. I teased him about the choice, but he just dangled his keys. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't impressed: 'responsible' and 'Dylan' used to be an oxymoron.

"And a towel!" Dylan shouted after the curvy server, his eyes following her ass as she walked away.

Typical Dylan.

He caught me watching him and shrugged. "Great view, it'd be a shame to miss it."

"Nice to see some things never change."

His grin had its usual effect of both infuriating and arousing me.

"But some things do. Want to tell me about your new look?"

"It's been a rough day. The restaurant where I had my shitty serving job is going bankrupt, so they fired me without notice and kept my tips."

Dylan cocked an eyebrow. "So you got revenge by wasting all of their condiments on your chest?"

I was acutely aware of his eyes flicking down to my chest, and I briefly regretted the boring (but incredibly comfortable) bra I'd thrown on that morning. I crossed my arms across my filthy sweater.

"No, I wanted a 'your life is a dumpster fire' hot dog, but I got splashed by a garbage truck and now it's my edgy fashion statement."

Dylan considered this, then nodded. "Best way for a garbage truck to put out a dumpster fire."

My jaw dropped in mock indignation, but I couldn't keep up the pretense of outrage. I laughed. I always laughed with Dylan.

Until he made me cry.

The server returned with our drinks, a towel, and to my supreme gratitude, a branded pub hoodie. She winked as she handed it over, whispering, "The owner says it's nice to have his regulars back."