We head down the street and don’t stop until we’ve reached the safety of the hotel lobby. Dylan hasn’t taken his eyes off me. I swallow again, and my stomach drops into my—well, parts of me that have never been this turned on before.

“Where in the hell did you learn to do that?” His gaze is so heated I feel like I’m going to burst into flames.

“I’m so sorry I lost my temper like that. I have a tendency to fall back on bad habits when I’m cornered. The streets taught me a lot.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut around him?

“What?”

He hustles after me as I turn abruptly and head for the elevator bank.

“Jasalie. You’ve lived on the streets?”

I press the up button and don’t look over at him. “Just briefly. No big deal. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sorry I pushed.” He steps back from me, but I see the hurt on his face. “It’s none of my business.”

A pang of guilt cuts through me. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“You’re not. You’re just more similar to me than I realized.” His dimples flash.

“How so?”

“We both…” He hesitates like he’s wishing he hadn’t started this topic. “We’re defensive. On the alert. Right?”

“True.” I bite my lip.

“But you know what?” Dylan says. “I’m not scared of you. And you’re not going to make me either.”

I crack a smile. “Oh, yeah?” I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t scare you even a little?”

That shadow from earlier crosses over his face again. He covers it quickly with a grin, but I know I didn’t mistake it.

Dylan is feeling vulnerable.

And from the experience we just had outside, he’s not exactly an expert at fending off unwanted attention.

“Didn’t know Tucson had this many paparazzi,” I say with a searching look at his face.

He turns red. “My agent thinks it’s great. And the media knew we were coming here this weekend. The team officials didn’t try to keep it a secret like they could have. They wanted the attention.”

“And yet, every single cameraman within five square miles of our hotel seems to have one man in their sights,” I say as I touch his hand. “You.”

“Sometimes they follow me,” he mumbles. “Not like the entertainers get followed. But you know…”

He trails off, but I finish his sentence for him. “But right now it’s hunting season. Your team just won the championship, and you were the MVP. So they’re chasing you.”

His jaw ticks. “Jasalie, I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of getting you out of there. They took me by surprise, and they film everything. All they want is a story, so if I lose it in front of the cameras, it’ll be all over the press, and that’s the last thing you deserve. As it is, you’re probably going to see yourself in a shit tabloid somewhere. I wanted to control when the photos were taken and by whom, but some of those guys work for the low-hanging fruit tabloids.”

I shrug. “Hey, doesn’t bother me. I really don’t care what anybody thinks about me.”

Dylan’s gaze locks with mine. “I know. That’s something I really find…mesmerizing about you. I just want you to know that I would do anything to protect you. Anything.”

A caveman speech if I’ve ever heard one.

So why does it turn me on so much?

Thank God. The elevator’s here.

We ride it in silence to my floor.

“I’ll walk you to your door,” Dylan says as he gets out with me.

I slide my keycard in the lock and hold the door partway open as I turn to look at Dylan.

He looks back at me. “I’m very patient.”

I laugh nervously. “I guess you’d better be to put up with me.”

“What’s in your heart?” He reaches over and lightly touches the front of my shirt with his index finger.

As the shivers go up and down my spine, I swallow hard. “Nobody’s home there,” I say, only pretending to be joking. “Hasn’t been for a while now.” Maybe forever.

“You need a home?” he says.

Oh, you have no idea.

“In a manner of speaking,” I say, hoping to sound casual.

“I want to kiss you, Jasalie,” he says next.

My stomach does a cartwheel. “Um…” I swallow hard. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“How come?” He leans his hand on the doorframe above my head and puts his head closer to mine.

I step back so that I’m almost completely in the room now.

“It could get complicated,” I say in a husky voice. “Besides, you’re not my type.”

“But you’re not mine, either,” he says. “I thought we’d already been over all of that. I still want to kiss you.”

I take a deep breath and look down. “I don’t think so.”

Maybe if I don’t look at his lips again, I’ll be able to restrain myself from jumping him.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s cool.”

I look up and smile at him. “You’re practically irresistible. You know that right?”

He shrugs. “I don’t seem to be scoring too highly with you. Am I right?”

“No. You’re scoring. At least in my head.”

He laughs. “Likewise.”

I reach out and give him a little shove. “Go to bed, Mr. Wild. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He leans down and gives me the briefest of pecks on the lips. Light. Feathery. Erotic. It’s all I can do not to swoon right there in front of him and beg him to take me against the wall.

“I’ll see you,” he says.

And he’s gone. I tiptoe out from my door a few steps to watch him walk toward the elevators. He doesn’t look back once.

I exhale loudly and step back inside my room. Jesus, he’s good.

I check my bank account, and sure enough, twelve thousand five hundred dollars is sitting there.

I’m halfway to saving my mother’s home. And maybe to healing my own heart at the same time.

But I can’t possibly sleep now. After that lip brushing with Dylan, my thighs are clenching with need. And I know getting myself off isn’t going to be enough.

Dylan Wild has me craving him. Turning him away tonight took a herculean effort on my part.

I toss and turn in bed, and finally I throw back the sheets in frustration. I need to do something to calm down.

So I pull out my clay, and I sit down on the floor and sculpt. I work for hours, making one figure and then smashing it to make another. I stop only because I’m so exhausted I can hardly keep my eyes open.

I’m smiling as I finally crawl into bed and turn out the light. Because I had fun. My first art teacher, way back in junior high school, the only teacher I ever really liked, used to say the joy of sculpting is supposed to be in the creating, not in the finished product.

I used to believe her. But I’d lost that perspective recently. Sculpting stopped being a haven for me and became more of a burden. Being rejected by art galleries and not knowing what to do about that sucked. And with each passing rejection, I began to feel that there was no more passion running through my veins. It scared me, and I worried that, like most people, I had lost that light in my soul everyone is born with.

Tonight, my light burned bright again. And I’m grateful.