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Dylan Matthews. Sports caster extraordinaire. Ladies’ man. And class-A asshole.
“Do you mean to tell me you haven’t found my Gucci necklace? I can’t go on air without my necklace! You know this. It’s a part of my style. It’s a part of me.”
You want to strangle him. Oh, god, you want to throttle this man and be done with it. “Dylan,” you say, your voice far, far calmer than you felt. All the eyes in the studio are on you, and you remind yourself that you can’t go around murdering people in public. You had to do that shit in private. “It’s just a necklace. I’m sure no one will even notice it’s gone.”
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because his eyes flare. “How dare you. That’s a part of my brand. If you think no one–”
“Okay, okay,” you jump in, cutting him off. You look around before remembering your own necklace and unclasping it from around your neck. “Here. Just wear this for now, okay? I’ll get someone to look for yours in the meantime.”
He looks at your necklace critically. It’s a simple thing that you picked up at a thrift store somewhere years ago, and you hope and pray that it’s enough to placate him.
“Fine,” he says, to your absolute relief. “But someone better find it or there’ll be hell to pay.”
He fastens the necklace on and by the time he’s turned around, his winning smile is already plastered onto his face. You look down at your watch. Two minutes until you go on. Fucking hell.
You gratefully take the water that your assistant hands over to you, taking a huge swig to cool you down. Dylan makes his way over to the set, shaking hands with the guest before settling in in his interviewer chair. He’s already making small talk and you can see the tension slowly leave the shoulders of the interviewee.
He’s very good at talking. Every time he goes on air, he’s cool and collected and, frankly, hot. You can see why he has such a dedicated fanbase. He’s a great host and even better interviewer, making everyone feel welcome and the set super fun. His jokes . . . leave something to be desired, but honestly, people seem to love that, too, so you can’t hate.
Which is why you’ve put up with him for so long.
“And we’re live in five, four . . .”
You find your seat behind the camera operators and watch Dylan work his magic. If he lacked even one of the traits you’d listed, you would have him out on the street in a heartbeat, but he’s just too good to throw away. You know other networks have scouted him, and you also know that they’ve promised him considerably more than he’s being paid here. And yet, here he is, making only your life miserable for some unfathomable reason.
You gesture an intern over and slip her some cash. “Run down to the Gucci store and see if you can’t find his godforsaken necklace. Just pull up one of the old broadcasts so you know what it looks like.”
She nods and scurries away.
The interview proceeds without a hitch, and once you’re sure you’re not needed any more, you retire to your office. You’re occupied for the rest of the afternoon and don’t even realize how late it is until you get a knock on your door.
You look up to find the pain in your neck in its gangly humanoid form.
“You’re still here?” Dylan asks.
You blink, looking out the window at the dark skyline, then down at your watch. “Oh, shit, is it that late already?” No wonder your back hurts, you’ve been hunched over for hours.
You start putting your things away and realize Dylan is still at the door. “Why are you still around?”
“Oh,” he says, “I forgot something, came back to pick it up. Do you want to get dinner?”
Your stomach rumbles at the thought of food, and the offer is tempting in spite of the company you’d have to keep, but you shake your head. “Thanks, but I have to be back in early to finish this report, so I’ll probably just go straight to bed.”
You get up to leave when a bag beside your chair catches your eye. “Oh, good thing you’re here, actually. Here.”
You hold the bag out to him. He takes it from you, noting the branding on the outside. “Did you . . . get me a new Gucci necklace?”
Oh, no, he doesn’t look pleased. Fuck. You should have given it to him tomorrow, you’re far too exhausted to deal with his tantrums right now.
But he pulls the box out anyway and picks up the brand-new necklace. His slender fingers hold it aloft, the night lights bouncing across the metal. You make a mental note to yourself to find him a role in a jewellery commercial.
Still with a frown on his face, he places the necklace back in its box and holds it back out to you. Fuck. “Is it the wrong one?” You’re tired to the bone, but goddamnit, if you have to get up at the ass crack of dawn to scour every Gucci store in the country to keep this adult baby from whining for another day, then you fucking would.
“It’s the right one,” he says, while still unfathomably handing you the box.
“Then what –?”
He touches the necklace still hanging around his neck, the one you gave him. “I want to keep this one.”
Now you’re baffled. “You want to keep my necklace? My second-hand necklace that I bought for two bucks?”
“Can I?”
You blink but reach out to take the Gucchi box from his hand. “Uh, yeah, sure. And you’re sure you don’t want this?”
He shrugs. “You can have it. Consider it a gift.”
You roll our eyes, tucking the box away in a desk drawer. “It’s only a gift if you pay for it, dumbass,” you grumble, then freeze. Shit. In all the time you’ve worked together, and in all the time he’s been a pest (there have been many), you’ve never insulted him directly to his face. Your overwhelming exhaustion clearly burned away some of your filters.
You look up to see Dylan considering you with raised eyebrows, arms crossed. “Did you just call me a dumbass?”
“No,” you say quickly. And stupidly.
An eyebrow quirks. “Really. You didn’t just call me a dumbass?”
There’s no way out of this. “Sorry, I’m just really tired.”
“And you start calling people dumbasses when you get tired?”
You sling your bag across your shoulder. “I get snippy when I’m tired,” you lie. Well, half-lie. You do get snippy when you’ve tired, but you would only ever call him a dumbass.
He presses a hand against his chest in dramatic affront. “I can’t believe you could even think such cruel thoughts about me.” His voice is lilting, his cadence teasing.
Is Dylan . . . joking with you?
You’ve known and worked with Dylan for so long, you’ve seen how he acts when he’s trying to be funny or teasing or charming, but it’s always with other people. With you, he’s always dry and to the point when he’s not being a harbinger of a migraine. The fact that he’s even attempting to joke or tease or whatever it is leaves you speechless for long enough that Dylan drops his hand and looks at you with concern.
Concern?
What is happening to this man?
“You good?”
You blink, shaking yourself out of it. “Uh, yeah. Yeah.”
His expression remains the same. “Maybe you should get something to eat. If you don’t want to go to a restaurant, we can always order in.”
We.
Did Dylan . . . want to hang out with you?
There’s . . . there’s no way. There’s no way television sensation Dylan Matthews, ranked #7 most eligible bachelor in America wanted to spend time with his stuffy producer.
And yet, here he is, leaning against the doorframe, and looking for all intents and purposes like he wants to be here.
“Why are you here?” you ask, a sudden curiosity prickling in the back of your head.
“Wow, the exhaustion is really getting to you, huh? I told you, I left –”
“No,” you interrupt him. “No, I don’t mean right now. I mean at this studio. Why are you still with us? I’ve seen the offers you get. You could be making triple what you make here at any other studio, but you’ve been with us for years. Why?”
He shrugs. “I like it here.”
Now it’s your turn to raise an eyebrow. “Really? That’s the only reason?”
A small grin plays across his lips, like he knows what you’re really asking. You’re not even sure what you’re asking, only that a nagging suspicion has been worming away at you ever since he told you he’d keep your necklace.
“Come on, producer,” he says. “Surely someone as smart as you can figure out why someone this sexy and intelligent is still hanging around you? And staying single, for that matter. Of my own volition.”
You blink multiple times as your brain tries to process what he’s implying.
Is Dylan seriously saying that he, one of the most popular, most attractive up-and-coming sports casters with people constantly throwing themselves at him is attracted to you, a simple, regular-looking, 9-5 job having manager? Is he saying that he likes you? Romantically??
Not that you’re uninterested, of course. You’d have to be blind and deaf to not be attracted to him. You just never considered that someone like Dylan would ever pay attention to you.
Still, your only response is, “What.”
“Great.” Dylan claps once. “How do you feel about Chinese?”
You blink again. “What?” you repeat, this time even more confused.
“For dinner. I know a really nice Chinese place that’s not too far from here.”
“Are you . . . is this a date? Are you asking me out on a date?”
Dylan looks at you like you’re slow, but he finds that quality adorable, and you’re reminded again that this man is a nuisance. An attractive nuisance, but a nuisance nonetheless. The fog clouding your brain after the revelation clears up in an instant, leaving you with fierce butterflies.
“Yes,” Dylan says slowly, enunciating unnecessarily. “I’m asking you out. Now can we please go, I’m hungry.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the smile that’s tugging up your lips. “Fine,” you say, as if exasperated, brushing past him out of your office. “But it’s your treat.”
Dylan follows close behind and you hear his long-suffering sigh. “The things I do for love.”