Dylan Read online

  “We were planning on it.” Merri-Lee pulled the gold and white invite out of her Gucci and waved it like a victory flag. She was clearly offended J.T. hadn’t assumed they were invited. “You know, as the host of The Daily Grind, I am privy to—”

  Her BlackBerry tooted the Daily Grind theme song. “I have to take this.” She lifted her tissue-stuffed bags, and poof, Dylan’s matchmaking mom was gone like Criss Angel.

  Alone at last.

  “Hey, J.T.” Ash wave-walked over, her black high-pony swinging like a happy puppy’s tail.

  “Whaddup, Ash?” he mumbled, never taking his eyes off Dylan.

  Ehmagawd, was he crushing back?

  Perkyshorts got the hint and harrumphed to the front of the store.

  “Those are pretty sweet kicks,” he said, nodding at Dylan’s shoes. He lifted one toned leg, revealing an identical shoe.

  Dylan blew Merri-Lee a mental air kiss to thank her for picking the Nikes.

  “So, are you the hard-core-into-tennis type?” He raised his brown brows. “Or the all-gear, no-idea type?”

  “Puh-lease! I totally heart tennis,” she lied. “I have to buy this outfit. I’ve already worn my other ones out.”

  He chuckled.

  Did he think she was joking?

  Lying?

  Charming?

  Fat?

  “I think you should get that one.” He smiled with his midnight blue eyes. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the register.”

  Dylan thought about rescuing her sarong from the changing room but decided not to bother. Her new tennis persona wouldn’t dream of wearing something that impractical and chic. Besides, the sweet smell of J.T.’s coconut-scented sunscreen had suddenly become something she couldn’t live without, and it was now heading in the opposite direction.

  “Oh no,” she accidentally blurted as they reached a rack of white visors.

  “What?” J.T. stopped walking and touched the small of her back.

  “My mom has my AmEx black card in her purse.”

  J.T. grinned. “No worries. It’s on me.”

  “Really?” Dylan beamed, and not because of the 100 percent discount.

  “Really.” He caught Ash’s attention and air-scribbled. She nodded once. And just like that, they strolled out of the boutique without so much as stopping to pick up a complimentary mint.

  “Love the outfit.” Dylan smiled, the afternoon sun warming her air-conditioned shoulders. “My tennis elbow thanks you.”

  “You have tennis elbow?” he asked with grave concern.

  Something in his expression made Dylan wonder if she had misused the term.

  “Kidding,” she tried.

  His smile returned.

  “You’re funny.”

  “You’re right,” she giggled. “Thanks again for the dress.”

  “No problem. I’ll have Ash send more up to your room.” He quickly scanned her. “Size six?”

  “Four,” she corrected him quickly.

  “Four it is!” He waved once and turned toward the villas. “See you tonight.”

  “Yup. See ya tonight.” Dylan rocked back on the rubber heels of her Nikes, hoping the boutique had a decent exchange policy.

  KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB

  ALOHA OPEN VIP PARTY

  Monday, June 29

  7 P.M.

  “I feel like I’m in a floral-scented snow globe,” Dylan whispered to Merri-Lee later that night.

  They had just entered the massive tent on the hibiscus-lined bluff overlooking the twilit Pacific. Everywhere Dylan looked she saw white: white orchid centerpieces, white chandeliers dripping with pearls, white Mikasa china, frosted-white goblets, and, of course, white-clad tennis lovers sampling appetizers and predicting this year’s Aloha Open champions. And it was all set to the driving electronic beats of the Chemical Brothers. An odd choice for a VIP dinner, but so were sneakers.

  Feeling like a total mom-glom, Dylan quickly ditched Merri-Lee in search of someone worth texting home about.

  She wove through the crowd in her silver Nike Zooms, her mom’s diamond-studded four-leaf clover Chopard earrings swinging above the mesh straps of her Svetlana for Nike dress. In the absence of color and delicate fabrics, Dylan needed something that spoke to the side of her that wasn’t selling out for a crush. Never had her lids been so smoky or her pulse points more saturated in ginger-blackberry DKNY Delicious Night perfume. Her red curls had been individually glossed, and one side was pinned above her ear. A full updo would have been too sophisticated for the sporty crowd, and all down would have eclipsed her fabulously high cheekbones. For someone who had spent the majority of her day on a dehydrating airplane and then been forbidden to wear black, Dylan looked pretty darn good.

  “Excuse me, miss.” A walking Abercrombie bag materialized in front of her, holding a silver tray. “Would you care for a prosciutto-wrapped melon ball in a soy and white wine reduction?”

  “Given.” Dylan stabbed some melon with a toothpick and lifted it to her mouth. A slab of prosciutto fell off the ball and landed on the yellow swoosh above the hem of her skirt. “Ooops.” She flicked the oily scrap with her soy sauce–sticky fingers, leaving a dark streak on the porous material. “Why aren’t you serving all-white food? Soy is white’s worst enemy.”

  Abercrombie was just offering Dylan a napkin when she spotted J.T.

  “Forget about it.” She waved away the blond waiter, then hurried toward her idea of an Aloha Open trophy.

  He was standing next to a giant ice sculpture of a tennis racket, shaking hands with a silver-haired couple and charming them with his dimple-flanked smile. He looked ah-dorable in his Lacoste polo and tuxedo tennis shorts, which was no easy feat.

  “Awesome party,” she blurted, then immediately regretted it. Massie always told her to act aloof around boys she liked.

  “Hey, you.” J.T. turned away from his geriatric audience and focused his hotness on Dylan. His floppy brown hair was pokey with product, and his navy eyes made the Pacific backdrop seem unnecessary.

  “That dress is a grand slam.” He bent at the knee and mimed a forehand swing.

  “Thanks!” Dylan scanned the crowed, trying to take in every detail of the night on which she was inevitably going to lose her lip-kiss virginity. But her brain must have been covered in Teflon, because nothing seemed to be sticking except J.T.’s hawtness.

  “Follow me.” He grabbed her wrist and led her to a nearby table. Getting pulled through the crowd by such a total HART made Dylan forget she was wearing an athletic dress. The way everyone was envy-staring, one would have thought she was draped in Lagerfeld.

  J.T. lifted two flutes of sparkling white cider off a passing tray. Dylan accepted her mocktail graciously, then fake-sipped. Bubbly anything led to burping, and unfortunately, they weren’t at that point in their relationship yet.

  “So, do you surf?” Dylan consulted her mental list of “boy questions” as she strategically placed a white napkin on her soy stain.

  “Nah. Tennis is way more exciting and far more demanding.”

  “Ah-greed.” Dylan took another fake sip. “Do you play video games?”

  “Tennis Wii is awesome. My friend Nick and I played for five hours last night. Get this—he actually sprained his finger trying to return my lob.” His slammed his elbow on the silver tablecloth and rested his forehead in his hand. “I mean, who does that?”

  “He must be in a lot of pain.” Dylan pretended to care.

  “Real pain is losing your Wii partner,” J.T. sighed. “You play?”

  Dylan shook her head no. The only Wii she was interested in was her and J.T.

  A long moment of silence followed. Their eyes darted around the room—and then grazed over each other for a split second. J.T. rubbed his temple. Dylan finger-twisted her hair. She searched her mind for something to say, but nothing came. She felt trapped in an episode of The Hills.

  All she wanted to do was burp, “Like me!” But she knew it was too soon. I
nstead, she pretended to be distracted by the popping bubbles in her champagne flute, as if they were sending her an urgent message that demanded her immediate attention.

  Beyond the tent a soft breeze rustled the palm fronds, the surf ebbed and flowed against the black sand, wide-winged birds glided across the tie-dyed sky, and speedy little lizards scuttled past their feet. It was as if Mother Nature was working her magic all over the place, except when it came to her and J.T.

  “So, what else are you into? You know, other than tennis?” Dylan asked, hoping for something she could respond to in earnest.

  J.T. blinked as though he didn’t quite understand the question. “Travel, I guess.”

  “Seriously? I love to travel. I traveled here all the way from Westchester, New York.” She sat up a little taller.

  “New York? No way!” He leaned closer. “Have you ever been to Ashe Stadium?”

  “Come awn, Ashe me a hard one.” She rolled her eyes, managing to avoid admitting she had no idea what that was.

  “Okay.” His eyes crackled with electricity. “Grass, clay, or hard?”

  “Why choose one when you can have them all?” Dylan shrugged. Were those part of the spa package?

  “Most people have a favorite surface—even Federer struggles on clay.”

  “Sucks to be h—” She paused. Was this person male or female? “Sucks to be Federer.”

  J.T. shook his head slowly from side to side, the corners of his red lips curled in a you’re-quite-a-piece-of-work sort of way.

  But a good piece of work or a bad piece of work? The uncertainty was making her palms itch.

  “So, what’s your favorite quality in a girl?” Dylan asked, hoping they still had a chance, even though they had different interests. After all, David Beckham hadn’t picked Sporty Spice—he’d picked Posh. And who said lightning couldn’t strike twice?

  “Well, I can tell you what I don’t like. My last girlfriend knew nothing about tennis. She was more into shopping,” he practically spit.

  Suh-nooozer!” Dylan blurted, surrendering to his dark blue eyes, even though shopping did seem like the best way to fight the jet lag that was tempting her to yawn in his face.

  Just then, a warm breeze delivered a whiff of J.T.’s coconut-scented skin and rendered her powerless. So he was a little tennis-obsessed—she could pretend to be a size-four athlete for a week or two. How hard could it be?

  “I mean, do you have any idea what it’s like to talk to someone who goes on and on about something you have absolutely no interest in?” he asked, shaking his head.

  “It sounds awful.”

  He looked her straight in the eye with an intensity that made her pits itch.

  “My family has box seats for the Erickson-Sveningson match in three days. You should join us.”

  Dylan was tempted to Tom Cruise herself onto the chair and shout, “A ten just asked me out!” But she speed-nodded her acceptance instead.

  A warm smile spread across J.T.’s chiseled face, and Dylan had a feeling she’d be burping in front of him by sunrise.

  Suddenly, a collective gasp filled the tent. J.T.’s navy blue eyes drifted to the center of the crowd and held firm on the blonde standing beneath the pearl-coated chandelier.

  Svetlana Slootskyia stood petting her signature French braid as if it were a charmed snake. Her sleeveless, sequin-covered tennis cocktail dress shimmered in the setting sun, boldly announcing that she wasn’t going to hide from her scandal: in fact, she was going to shine. Her toned, tanned arms and long, slim legs more than justified her place on the cover of Maxim. But her narrow blue-green eyes and tight lips sent a clear message to her pervy boy-fans: “Don’t even think about it.”

  As soon as everyone realized they were staring at Svetlana, the hum of voices, random bursts of laughter, and the clinking of silverware resumed immediately.

  But J.T. didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

  Dylan swiveled, once again following his dreamy gaze to Svetlana “IntimidatinglyprettyinternationalstarNikeendorsedMaximcovergirlWimbledonwinning” Slootskyia.

  Reality hit Dylan like a barrage of high-speed tennis balls. When she’d met J.T. in the tennis shop, he hadn’t been calling her hot—he’d meant her dress was hot. Specifically, her Svetlana for Nike dress.

  If Svetlana was Tennis Barbie, Dylan was Raggedy Ew.

  The party paparazzi and several Elph-wielding fans snapped away, and Svetlana smiled graciously for each and every one of them. She didn’t look angry or dangerous, just poised and gracious as she pivoted to make sure everyone got what they came for.

  But Dylan wasn’t buying it. She had read enough Us Weekly’s to know that rehab doesn’t work the first time.

  All she had to do now was prove it.

  KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB

  PAGODA

  Tuesday, June 30

  7 A.M.

  “Cassidy, can you please do something about these waves?” Merri-Lee whipped off her headphones and tossed them onto the black director’s chair. “They’re killing my audio.”

  “Um …” The rattled assistant hurried to the edge of the precipice and searched the turquoise ocean for a possible solution.

  Ever since the alarm beeped at 5 A.M., Merri-Lee had been a nervous wreck. Was her cream-colored pantsuit white enough? Was the sky blue enough? The breeze cool enough? Her blowout full enough? Were the interview questions edgy enough? Was the cliffside pagoda charming or tacky? Did the palm trees in the background look fake? Should Svetlana recline on the pink satin couch or sit? Orrrrr should they lose the couch altogether and go with something more sporty? Like a treadmill? Wait! Maybe they should forget the pagoda and move the shoot to the clay court. Or would it be better for Svetlana’s new image to keep her in this Zen environment? What would Barbara do?

  Dylan did what she could to reassure her mother over a pointless breakfast of hot lemon water and dry whole wheat toast points. But she had her own concerns and didn’t really give it her all. True, this interview, if done right, would put Merri-Lee in a whole new category of get-the-story telejournalists. But if Dylan could use this time to truly study Svetlana—her tennis style, her tennis lingo, her tennis elbow—she’d have a much better chance of convincing J.T. that she was just as worthy of his love as Svetlana. And in the big picture, that was much more important than this interview. After all, The Daily Grind featured high-profile celebs five days a week. But the chance to lose her lip virginity to a perfect ten would probably never happen again.

  Dylan stepped into the pagoda. A maze of duct-taped camera wires had been stuck to the white wood floor by the crew, and Cassidy had seen to it that all of the star’s needs had been met. A mini Sub-Zero fridge had been installed to keep the spirulina detox smoothies chilled, and a Paris Hilton–free stack of Us Weekly’s, OK’s, and Hello’s were fanned out on the teak coffee table. Thirty packs of chocolate mint Altoids were stacked into a pyramid beside the magazines, and the flames on the Tocca candles bowed in the island breeze.

  “Pickles, have a seat on the couch for a minute,” Merri-Lee said with an impatient smile. “We need a standin for Svetlana while we adjust the lighting.”

  Dylan sat immediately. How poetic! There she was trying to be Svetlana and she was asked to—

  Re-owwwwwww!

  A gray kitty cat with haunting blue eyes leaped up from underneath a throw pillow and pounced on top of the silver fridge. It hissed at her, baring its pointy, Gillette Venus–sharp teeth.

  “What the—?”

  “Thank you for getting me Boris.” Svetlana extended her white bell sleeve–covered arms as she glided into the pagoda and lifted the kitty off the fridge. She held it against her Puma minidress and swayed back and forth. The silver S clips that held back her blond hair wink-reflected each time they caught the sun.

  “Is he yours?” Dylan stood, more out of nervousness than respect.

  “Nyet.” Svetlana shook her head no just in case Dylan didn’t understand Russian. “My Bo
ris is trapped in Moscow. Your president will not allow him to enter this country without quarantine. So I have Boris look-alikes until we are together again.” She squat-pivoted next to the fridge and pulled out two green spirulina-soy lattes. “Have.”

  Unsure whether that was a question or a command, Dylan politely accepted.

  “There’s my little superstar,” Merri-Lee gushed.

  Dylan rolled her eyes. Her mother was constantly embarrassing her with silly nicknames and—

  Merri-Lee pulled the tall blonde into a suffocating hug.

  Oops. Wishful thinking.

  “Mom-Coach sends these for you and delightful assistant Cassidy.” Svetlana looked from Merri-Lee to Dylan and held out a red, heart-shaped tin containing black-caviar pierogi-and-cheese blintzes dipped in Valrhona chocolate.

  Dylan almost choked on her green smoothie. “I am nawt her assistant—I’m her daughter.”

  “Really?” Svetlana studied them for a moment, then stroked Boris’s tiny gray head. “You look like sisters.”

  “Did you hear that, Dylly? Sisters!” Merri-Lee lost herself in a fit of hysterics, her smile lingering long after the laughter faded.

  On the outside, Dylan grinned with faux amusement. But on the inside, she imagined herself on the black beach below, tanning next to J.T. as the cobalt blue waves lapped against the shore. In this particular fantasy, he was feeding her BBQ Baked Lay’s, admiring her curves, and begging her to tell him funny stories about the Pretty Committee. Oh, and she was not wearing white.

  “Where is the charming Olga?” Merri-Lee glanced over Svetlana’s shoulder.

  “Mom-Coach could not be here. She is checking clay courts for dents.”

  “Well, thank her warmly for me.” Merri-Lee quickly unloaded her nosh on a member of her lighting crew. “I’m so thrilled to have you here.” She clapped as if she and Svetlana were off to their first Kappa Kappa Gamma social. “Please, have a seat.”

  Svetlana sat on the pink satin couch, knees firmly together. Dylan climbed up on the black director’s chair just outside the pagoda and snapped her knees together too.