Dylan. Part 4

"Hi, I'm Svetlana's designer." She even had a high-pitched munchkin voice that complimented her shock of platinum Gwen StefanimeetsMarie Antoinette hairdo.

"I'm Dylan. I luhv your-"

"And what is this?" Svetlana gut-punched a mannequin wearing short shorts and a glitter-covered sports bra. "Where is the belly chain?"

Winsome quickly caught the dummy before it toppled over. "Cartier is sending it over this aft-"

"And this this?" Svetlana bared her fangs at a hippie-chic eyelet dress. "I asked for eyelet eyelet!"

"That is is eyelet." Dylan had to correct her with an eye roll. eyelet." Dylan had to correct her with an eye roll.

"No, this this is eyelet." Svetlana picked up a black Sharpie and scribbled bold flowers all over the pretty white mini. is eyelet." Svetlana picked up a black Sharpie and scribbled bold flowers all over the pretty white mini.

"Svetlana, those are rosettes rosettes," Winsome said evenly.

"Maybe in your your country!" Svetlana wrote NYET across the dress and slammed down the marker. country!" Svetlana wrote NYET across the dress and slammed down the marker.

"Svetlana, stop! These are cute times ten!"

Winsome shot Dylan a grateful smile.

Svetlana towered over the designer, her blond braid resting on the girl's bare shoulder. "I said I wanted the skirt shorter," she hissed.

"Right. You did. And you're right." Winsome pulled a pin out of her shoe and speed-fastened the hem an inch higher.

"So, Svetlana, tell Winsome why we're here." Dylan tapped the screen of her LG with a French-manicured nail tip.

"Tennis clothes," Svetlana managed. "Anything she wants."

"Of course!" Winsome finished the hem and then reached for her sketch pad, pulling a charcoal slab out of her platinum updo.

Their words washed over Dylan like the spa's luxurious Vichy shower. Was this how alphas were treated all all the time? the time?

"Sooo, what's the fantasy?" Winsome hopped up on a tall sealed box marked WORN ONCE. DESTROY. She knocked the heels of her custom-made platform Chucks against the cardboard with glee. "I can do anything but beading. My fingers are too plump for detail work. Luckily, there's a woman on the mainland with baby hands. She's old but fast."

"I don't need beads." Dylan sat down next to Winsome. She peered over the designer's bony shoulder at the fresh page in her sketchbook, hoping it might be the last white thing she ever saw. "I want color. Lots of color. Ella Moss meets Puma with vertical stripes. They are slimming, don'tcha think?"

"Ab-so-luuuut-leeee!" Winsome narrowed her eyes and began sketching like a girl possessed.

"Arrrrrrrrrrr," Svetlana yawned with her entire face. She was standing among the mannequins, looking just as bored as they did.

"This heat is making me thirsty," Dylan said to Svetlana, loving the power this little blackmail scam was giving her. "I'd like a mango smoothie. Winsome?"

The designer immediately put down her sketch pad and stood up. "What can I get you?"

Dylan shook her head no. "We should keep working." should keep working."

Winsome knit her platinum eyebrows in confusion.

"Svetlana will get them." Dylan stroked her red braid with the confidence and composure of a mob boss.

"I am no waitress!" Svetlana smacked one of the mannequins on the neck.

Dylan walked over to Svetlana. "Not yet. But you will be when I destroy your career," she whisper-hissed. This constant battle was trying her patience. Why couldn't Svetlana accept her role as a slave and just go with it?

Winsome glanced from her boss to Dylan back to her boss, as if she were watching a heated match in a game she barely understood.

Svetlana stepped away from the dummy. "Fine, what would you like?" she growled through clenched teeth.

Thirty-love, Dylan!

"Um, whatever she's having?" Winsome said like she was asking a question.

Svetlana spun on her Nikes, her blond braid slicing the humid air and slap-landing against her bare back.

"And don't bother spitting in it, 'cause you're taking the first sip," Dylan called after her.

As soon as Svetlana slammed the French doors behind her, Winsome turned to stare at Dylan in awe. "That was epic. She never listens to anyone anyone. See this scar?" She pointed to a raised line above her brow. "I designed a Grecian dress that made her look like a G.o.ddess. I told her she looked beautiful, and she threw her championship ring at my eye."

Dylan leaned into get a better look at the damage. "How come?"

"She can't take compliments. She hates hates them. They make her violent." Winsome charcoal-drew a sad emoticon on her bare knee, then quickly smudged it away. them. They make her violent." Winsome charcoal-drew a sad emoticon on her bare knee, then quickly smudged it away.

Dylan raised her eyebrows. "Why stay? You could design for anyone!"

"She's a walking ad for me." Winsome shrugged. "And if I want to start my own label one day, I need to . . ." Her voice trailed off. "You know, you're the first friend she's ever had on tour."

"Really?" Dylan wanted to point out that she was hardly a friend, but suddenly she felt an odd tug of sympathy for Svetlana.

Winsome grabbed a bolt of purple and yellow Pucci-esque fabric from the discarded-color pile in the far corner of the suite. "Now, let's make you even more gorgeous than you already are!" She charged toward Dylan with vigor, but stopped short. "Wait. You don't mind if I call you gorgeous, do you?" She shielded her face with the fabric, just in case.

"Not even a little bit." Dylan beamed.

KAPALUA SPA AND TENNIS CLUB.

DYLAN'S BUNGALOW Wednesday, July 1 9 A.M.

Diiiing-donnnng!

The following morning, Dylan tightened the bow on her sunset orange silk Tocca for Kapalua Spa robe and padded across her and Merri-Lee's bungalow. Her belly rumbled, knowing that the Salty Surfer Breakfast for two was waiting for her under a steamy silver dome on the room service cart. She was meeting Svetlana on her private court in an hour for their first practice, and she wanted to be well fueled for the workout.

"Alo-ha!" she blurted as she opened the door.

But a stack of boxes, not pancakes, stared back. A note on the cardboard, charcoal-written in happy loops, read: For Dylan Marvil:The most Marvil-ous muse ever.[image] XOX Winsome XOX Winsome "Yayyy!" Dylan tossed her long red side-braid over her shoulder, then dragged the boxes inside. Starting the morning with a compliment and new clothes beat a hearty breakfast any day. Was this how Ma.s.sie felt every every time she got her daily delivery of Glossip Girl? And if so, no wonder she always walked around with a today-is-my-birthday att.i.tude. time she got her daily delivery of Glossip Girl? And if so, no wonder she always walked around with a today-is-my-birthday att.i.tude.

Diving into one of the shoe-size boxes first, Dylan pulled out a pair of lavender heartcovered platform sneakers named Forty-Love. The second pair was pewter mesh covered with metallic-red letters that spelled out MARVIL-OUS. A third pair was light green satin with a brown leather toe. Winsome had named them Mint Chocolate Chip, after her and Dylan's mutual love for the ice cream flavor.

For every shoe there was a matching outfit. A light lavender V-neck striped hooded dress. A red romper with tiny gray pinstripes. A green argyle vest with a tartan mini, intended to be worn over brown boy shorts.

Little Dylan-esque touches took each piece from adorable to utterly enviable: gray socks with peac.o.c.k feathers instead of pom-poms, colorful satin headbands-turned-sweat-wickers, silver M FOR MARVIL-OUS hair pins, and a ruby red Swarovski tennis bracelet made to match her new, sparkling, custom-made red rhinestone racket! There was even a box of metallic gold tennis b.a.l.l.s monogrammed with Dylan's initials in green.

The only thing missing was white white.

If only her mother had been there to witness this bounty. Maybe then she'd realize how important her daughter really was. But she had been behind closed doors on a teleconference call with her producers since seven o'clock and had given Dylan strict instructions not to disturb her. Dylan sighed. She hoped, at least, that the intentional smattering of boxes and Svetlana-embossed tissue wrap would tip her mom off when she emerged.

"Now, what to wear?" Dylan scanned the volcano of clothes, wondering what would capture J.T.'s attention the fastest. She decided on a Diane von Furstenberginspired V-neck wrap dress with yellow, blue, and green Missoniish zigzags. Once she paired the dress with M.A.C. Copper Sparkle eye shadow and sweatproof YSL mascara, Dylan knew she'd look tennis hawt and then some.

Forgetting all about the Salty Surfer Breakfast, she slid on her Mint Chocolate Chips and left the bungalow with red-carpet confidence. It was time for her first lesson.

As usual, the sky was deep blue and cloudless. The tropical flowers opened their vibrant petals for the buzzing bees and hummingbirds. And the soft onsh.o.r.e breezes carved row after row of smooth waves that reminded Dylan of a plus-size pair of sapphire-colored corduroys.

On the lush, flower-flanked stone path that led to the public courts, Dylan bounced past two spa attendants in matching whites and old-school Ray-Bans. They lowered their black gla.s.ses when she pa.s.sed.

"Want me much?" she giggle-mumbled under her breath.

Securing her Dior wraparound sungla.s.ses, Dylan pretended not to notice the mult.i.tude of double takes she got as she sauntered across the grounds. Blissfully, she inhaled the fragrant island air and exhaled everything else. She would not be overlooked anymore.

At the courts, she spotted J.T. leaning against a gleaming chain-link fence, dabbing sweat off his brow with a gray wristband. Then he shook hands with a cute college-age boy whose pit sweatflooded Fila shirt seemed to say, "I ran my b.u.t.t off and lost."

Swinging her rhinestone-covered racket, Dylan mind-sang lyrics to J.T.'s (the famous one) "This Can't Just Be Summer Love" and timed her saunter to the groove-steady beat. As she neared the tennis greens, she saw Aloha Open banners and Nike swooshes adorning the courts and their aluminum pull-down seats. But nothing was more captivating than J.T. (the hawt one) and his caramel-colored highlights. His bangs were side-swept across his forehead, the tips kissing his black lashes and surrounding his navy eyes like a tiger-striped picture frame.

"Hey, Dylan!" he shout-waved.

Dylan's stomach lurched like one of those tennis b.a.l.l.spitting machines. Her name coming from his mouth sounded eerie. Like when something you dream about actually comes true.

"Cool braid," he called.

Dylan grabbed her faux hair with faux surprise, as if spending four hours extending and straightening it with a busty woman named Ingrid was so normal she forgot others might find it something to behold.

"Oh, hey," she said, injecting her tone with just the right amount of never-expected-to-find-you-here.

"Are you playing today?" J.T. misted his rosy cheeks with Evian.

"Given," Dylan said with plenty of duh duh!

"Wanna volley?" he said, his eyes on her red crystal-covered racket.

"Um . . ." What did volley volley mean again? Dylan looked over at the courts and saw a group of seven-year-olds working on their serves. The serious players-the ones competing in the Aloha Open-practiced on private courts to avoid being studied by the compet.i.tion. mean again? Dylan looked over at the courts and saw a group of seven-year-olds working on their serves. The serious players-the ones competing in the Aloha Open-practiced on private courts to avoid being studied by the compet.i.tion.

"Is that a yes yes?" He placed a warm hand on her shoulder, putting her sweatproof fabric to the test.

"I'd love to, but, um, I'm playing Svetlana today."

"Wait. You're friends friends with Svetlana?" His eyes widened and he gripped the chain-link fence. with Svetlana?" His eyes widened and he gripped the chain-link fence.

"Totally."

Behind him, the Pacific Ocean glinted in the sunlight.

"And you play together?"

Dylan nodded yes, as if this were something everyone wearing white had known for years.

"Wow. You must be . . . Wow . . . Do you think I could . . . Wow. I mean, could I just watch you guys warm up or something?" His voice cracked a little as he ran a hand through his adorably sweaty bangs.

"Oh, I'd love that," Dylan lied to his hopeful smile.

Was he more obsessed with tennis or Svetlana?

Not that it mattered. He was the kind of guy best friends fought over.

Dylan clutched her custom racket for strength. "Well, actually, Svetlana's feeling a little sensitive about her serve today. And it may be better if we just, you know-"

"Sure. Of course. I get it." He waved the thought away like a smelly jockstrap. "But we're still on for the Brady Erickson match tomorrow, right?"

Yes! Maybe he did like her after all.

But just in case, Dylan thought it best to end this before the s.e.xy sports-model and her latest pleated mini came searching for her tardy pupil and proved Dylan wrong.

"Yup, see you at the match."

"Oh, and um, one more thing," he stammered to his Adidas.

OMG! Was he going to ask for her phone number? The name of her favorite flower? Her hand in marriage?

She casually wiped her clammy hands on her braid.

"Yes," Dylan said sweetly, hoping to fill him with the confidence he needed to finish his question.

"Do you think you could . . ." He scratched his head and squinted against the bright sunlight.

"Yes?" Dylan took an encouraging half-step forward. He still smelled like coconuts. "What is it?"

"Do you think you could, um, wear something a little more"-he swallowed-"white?"

Dylan's insides gasped and her outsides blushed. "You didn't seriously think I'd wear this this, did you?" she managed. But she looked so hawt!

He shrugged, looking slightly embarra.s.sed.

"Puh-lease!" Dylan hate-gripped her red Swarovski crystal-covered racket.

"It's not me, it's my dad. He's so old school," J.T. insisted. "Personally, I like like your dress." your dress."

"You do?" Dylan's cheeks faded back to their natural pale state. "What about my racket?" She tilted it so the crystals caught the sun. They cast flecks of light on the thick green gra.s.s beneath their feet.

"Love it!" He grinned.