“I don’t need you—”
Oh that cut. It was going to be a damn long summer convincing Apollo otherwise. “You’ve made that point. When would you prefer me here by?”
“Sorry.” Apollo scrubbed at his jaw. “I don’t mean to be rude. This...isn’t easy. We’ve got a whole routine and everything going.” Weariness laced Apollo’s words, and he looked away.
It was a rare, candid glimpse at the man behind the mask and Dylan’s breath caught. Apollo wasn’t just older than he’d been eight years ago, he was transformed—crafted by grief and sadness into someone Dylan didn’t quite recognize.
“Hey.” He risked a touch, putting a hand on Apollo’s arm. Damn, he was solid. “I won’t be trouble. I promise. My whole job is to make things easier on you.”
Apollo laughed but he didn’t shrug off Dylan’s hand. “You? You’re bound to be trouble.”
“Yeah, but the good kind.” Dylan winked at him before he realized what he’d done. This wasn’t one of his friends. This was Apollo, who wasn’t going to welcome his flirting with anything other than mild irritation.
But Apollo surprised the hell out of him by laughing again. “Let’s hope so.”
It wasn’t much as far as moments went, just two guys teasing, but it felt like something of a victory, earning a laugh from the guy who was all-too-serious and all-business these days. For an instant, the years fell away and there was the guy Dylan had once known. And Apollo had it all wrong—it wasn’t Dylan who was trouble. It was Apollo and his unerring ability to hit Dylan square in the feels.
* * *
Apollo liked how Dylan thumbed through the binder, going page by page and asking intelligent questions, unlike a lot of Apollo’s friends who thought his level of planning was a bit...excessive. Or even Neal, who used to tease him incessantly about his micro-managing tendencies. God, I miss that.
“What does I-O-B mean?” Dylan asked, pointing at a spot on the laminated bedtime routine page.
“In own bed.” Apollo didn’t especially like confessing how his careful plan didn’t always work. “They often end up in each other’s beds. Or both in mine.”
“Cute. I slept with my parents so much at that age that my mom got me my own pillow and blanket for their room so I’d stop stealing hers.” Dylan gave him an indulgent smile, not like the judgmental preschool teacher who’d suggested he get a lock for the twins’ door. “Any special toys they sleep with that I should know about if you’re working late and I’m putting them down?”
“Chloe has a doll in a bee costume. She calls it Bee Baby. And Sophia has a stuffed elephant she calls Kitty. Expect to spend a lot of time hunting them down.” Apollo reached across Dylan to grab a pen so he could annotate the bedtime sheet.
“I’m on it.” Dylan had a great laugh—deep and rich, like his surprisingly husky voice. And all of a sudden Apollo was all too aware of how close they were standing, him crowding out Dylan so that he could write on the page, Dylan not taking a step back.
Hell, he could smell Dylan’s aftershave, some sort of ocean-y scent with a hint of mint that managed to be both young and hip and infinitely appealing.
What the fuck are you doing thinking about his smell? Apollo shoved the cap back on the pen, put it in the holder, and moved to the other side of the counter. Dylan was about to be the babysitter, and he was Dustin’s little brother. He didn’t get to smell good. Period. End of story.
“So you said you have references?” Apollo said hurriedly, trying to get this back on employer/employee footing and away from land mines like aftershave and impossibly long eyelashes that made even teasing winks far sexier than they needed to be.
“You’re for real going to check them?” Dylan pulled out his phone. “Give me your email and I’ll send my resumé right now.”
“You get to drive my kids around. Yes, I’m going to check the references.” Apollo rattled off his personal email address. His phone beeped seconds later. “That was fast.”
“Dude, you have no idea how many resumés I sent out before I got this job. Market is tight this year.”
“What do you want to do long-term? Teach?” Apollo leaned on the counter.
“Not exactly, and that’s why getting a job is hard. I want to direct an after-school program or a rec sports league for kids or possibly some hybrid of those things. I may end up needing my masters before I get the kind of job I want.”
“That’s...really specific.” Apollo was still struggling to reconcile this motivated guy with the teenager who had spouted War Elf knowledge and slept to noon most days. “Why not teach a few years at a preschool or elementary—”
“Why not hang out on a ship a few years, Lieutenant? Wait and see if you really want to be a SEAL?” Dylan fixed him with a hard stare.