Revenge #4 Read Online Free PDF Page B

plate.
    I laugh, loud enough to turn heads around us. I clamp my hand over my mouth.
    Dylan pulls the champagne bottle from the bucket of ice and refills my glass. Two waiters race over to assist, but he shoos them away.
    “Those boys can’t keep their eyes off you,” he says. “That sapphire dress almost makes your brown eyes blue.”
    “Easy there.” I wave for him to stop filling my glass.
    “Do you know that old song? It’s by Crystal Gale. Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue. ”
    “Sure, I know the song. I’m a music buff, remember? That’s why I’m a lowly intern at Morris.”
    I lean forward and crinkle my nose at the glass of champagne. It’s too full to pick up, so I take a slurp off the top. My slurp is a noisy.
    OMG. Everyone’s looking at me. I’m the dumb country hick who’s already had too much champagne and just slurped like a two-year old.
    Dylan doesn’t laugh at me like I expect. He just watches me over the candles, his face dreamy, like I could do no wrong.
    “Do you like that Crystal Gale song?” I ask. “Do you sing a cover?”
    “No.” His forehead furrows and he leans to the side in his chair, looking casual. “It’s not a guy’s song. It’s about a girl who’s crying, because her lover has moved on. She regrets treating him bad, and begs him to come back.”
    The way he dismisses the song so easily bothers me. My head feels light, like the champagne bubbles have drifted up there. Most of the bottle has gone into my glass, not Dylan’s.
    “What’s wrong with all that?” I lean forward and rest my forearms on the table. “A man can cry. Especially if he knows he fucked up. He probably should cry. And grovel.”
    Dylan tenses, but stays in his casual pose. His eyes dart back and forth between mine.
    “Real men don’t grovel.” His lip curls in disgust. “I hate that word. Grovel. You never hear about a woman groveling. It’s weak.”
    “Oh, yeah?” I say, challenging him. “I’d totally grovel, if I did something wrong and felt bad.”
    His expression gets serious, and he moves forward quickly. With his elbows on the table, he leans across the small table. His forehead is so close to mine, I can feel his heat radiating.
    “Jessica Lynn Rivera,” he says slowly. “When have you ever done something wrong and felt bad? Have you ever betrayed a lover?”
    My breath catches in my throat. Is he joking, or testing me? What does he know, or think he knows?
    His eyes are dark, and the anger is there. And pain. He’s been hurt. By a woman. I search his eyes, sinking into their depths and hoping to find some clue.
    His forehead is so close to mine, I feel a static charge between my hair and his hair.
    My voice is a raspy whisper. “Dylan, who hurt you?”
    He blinks and pulls away.
    “My wife,” he says. “She destroyed me. And that was before she even died.”
    “I’m so sorry.” I bite my tongue to keep from asking him what the hell happened. I want to reach across the table and shake him until he spills it. But I can’t. You can do that sort of thing with your best friend, but not the guy you’re dating.
    “She cheated on me,” he says, staring into the candle between us.
    On the exhale, I say, “Is that all?”
    His eyes flick up and lock on mine. A cold chill runs through me. I’ve said the wrong thing.
    “Yes, that’s all. You’ve probably figured out the rest, so don’t look so surprised.”
    I shake my head, the room rising up all around and suffocating me. “No, I don’t know.”
    He looks away from the table.
    “There was talk of making a made-for-TV movie out of her story, but I wouldn’t sign the life rights. Can you imagine that being your fifteen minutes of fame? I would have been the dumb schlub. Married to a woman who has an affair with her student. Then she convinces him to stab her husband to death for the insurance money.”
    My jaw drops open.
    Dylan continues talking, like it’s not even about him, but something he saw on TV.