Chapter 13 #2
"Last year Ethan hung ours on the kitchen doorframe. The kitchen doorframe." I roll my eyes dramatically. "The most obvious, boring place possible. When I suggested something more creative, he said traditions shouldn't be 'messed with.'"
I stab a piece of burrata. "We obviously lost. By a landslide. My parents have won three years running—they once rigged a mistletoe to pop out of a Nutcracker.
Sebastian's smile grows as I talk, and I realize I'm gesturing wildly with my fork.
"What?" I ask, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing. I just like seeing you animated about something." He leans forward. "So we need to destroy the competition, is what you're saying."
"Well, yes." I straighten my shoulders. "But more importantly, we need to beat Ethan and what's-her-name at everything."
"Olivia," Sebastian supplies helpfully.
"Whatever." I wave my hand dismissively. "I want them to see that I've moved on to someone who actually has imagination, some creativity. Someone who doesn't think inside the box is good enough."
He takes a sip of his scotch. "Well, I do love a challenge."
My wine is almost gone, and I can feel the tension in my shoulders starting to loosen. "Since we're on the subject of physical activities... my assistant mentioned you were a professional snowboarder?"
"In my twenties, yeah. Competed for almost ten years before a bad landing forced me into early retirement."
"That's why you went into sports marketing?"
He nods. "Figured I might as well use my connections."
Even though I already knew this from Zoe's gossiping, hearing him talk about it makes it more real. "That's actually pretty impressive."
"Don't strain yourself with the compliment, Charlotte."
"I prefer skiing," I say primly, though I'm secretly imagining him carving down a mountain, all power and grace.
"Of course you do." His smile tells me he sees right through me.
Our entrees arrive, momentarily saving me from having to respond.
I take a bite of my alfredo and nearly moan. The pasta is perfectly al dente, the sauce decadent without being overwhelming and the chicken is perfectly blackened.
"So, four months," Sebastian says, cutting into his steak. "That means we've had the 'exclusive' talk but obviously haven't met each other's families yet."
"Right. And we're spending the holidays together because things are getting serious."
"What else should I know? Are we at the 'leave a toothbrush at each other's place' stage?"
I consider this. "Yes. And maybe a change of clothes. Nothing major—we're not living together."
"But we're sleeping together."
My face heats and I twirl pasta onto my fork. "Obviously."
"Just making sure I have the details straight." His eyes lock with mine, and for a moment I'm back in my apartment, his hands on my skin, tangling in my hair.
"How often?" He questions, taking a bite of his steak.
"How often what?" My voice comes out hoarse.
"How often do we see each other? In our fictional relationship."
"Oh." I take the last gulp of wine emptying the glass. "Two or three times a week, I guess. More if our schedules allow."
He nods, thoughtful. "What about personal details? Favorite foods, allergies, that sort of thing?"
"Smart." I open my notebook again. "I'm allergic to shellfish. Not deathly, but enough to make me miserable."
"Noted. No shellfish. I'm allergic to cats, which is tragic because I love them."
I jot this down. "Favorite movie?"
"The Shawshank Redemption." He doesn't hesitate.
"Mine's Pride and Prejudice."
"The Keira Knightley version or the BBC miniseries?"
I look up, surprised. "The BBC one. How did you—"
"I have a sister." He shrugs. "Sarah made me watch both with her."
We spend the next forty-five minutes trading details.
Childhood pets, embarrassing stories and things on our bucket list. I learn that he has a scar on the back of his calf from falling out of a tree at age nine, that he can't stand the taste of licorice, and that he once accidentally set his college roommate's eyebrows on fire during a drunken cooking experiment.
By the time we're mostly through our entrees, I've had a second glass of wine and I'm actually enjoying myself. Sebastian is easy to talk to when he's not being infuriating, and he listens like every word matters.
"What about pet names?" he asks, stealing a bite of my chicken.
I stab his fork with mine, blocking his retreat. "Excuse me. Are you stealing my food?"
"Sampling," he corrects, eyes dancing with amusement. "For research purposes."
"Research purposes?"
"As your devoted boyfriend of four months, I should know your favorite foods." His smile is all innocence. "Just being thorough."
I narrow my eyes. "Let me make something very clear. Food theft is grounds for immediate relationship termination in my world. Fake or otherwise."
"That serious, huh?"
"Dead serious." I take another bite of my meal, guarding it possessively. "My sister once needed three stitches after trying to snag the last spring roll from my plate."
Sebastian's eyebrows shoot up. "You stabbed your sister over Chinese food?"
"She fell off her chair trying to escape my fork." I shrug unapologetically. "My family knows the rules. I don't share food. I always label my leftovers. I once put laxatives in a yogurt I knew my roommate in college kept stealing, even though she swore she didn't."
"Remind me never to open your fridge without permission."
"My mom calls it my 'food territorial complex.' She says it's the only thing I inherited from my grandfather besides his stubbornness."
Sebastian lifts his hands in surrender. "My sincerest apologies. I clearly crossed a sacred boundary."
"You did."
"It won't happen again." His voice is solemn, but his eyes still glint with mischief.
"It better not."
"Though the chicken was excellent. Perfectly even."
I point my fork at him. "Sebastian."
"Fine, fine." He cuts another piece of his steak. "Would it make you feel better if I offered you a bite of mine? As a peace offering?"
I eye his plate suspiciously. The steak does look good. Medium rare and glistening with butter. "Maybe."
"Open up," he says, holding out his fork with a perfect bite.
I hesitate, then lean forward and accept it. The steak melts in my mouth, rich and buttery.
"Truce?" he asks.
"Truce," I concede. "But consider this your only warning."
"Noted." His smile softens. "Though I should warn you—I'm terrible at following rules."
I roll my eyes but can't help smiling back. "Why am I not surprised?"
His gaze lingers on my face a moment too long. "So, about those pet names..."
"Nothing too saccharine. I'm not a 'baby' or 'sweetie' person."
"So, I can call you 'Shortcake'?" He asks, his lips quirk up at one corner.
"Really? That’s your pet name you’re going with?
"Maybe I just think you're sweet," he offers, his eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes me look away.
I take a sip of wine to hide my reaction. "Or you can call me Charlie. Most people who know me well do."
His fork pauses halfway to his mouth. He sets it down slowly, something shifting in his expression.
"I have permission to call you Charlie again?"
The weight of his question hits me suddenly. Since starting at Titan, Sebastian's been rigidly formal, dutifully calling me "Charlotte" because I told him to. I practically ordered him to use my first name, drawing that professional line between us with acute precision.
But if we're supposed to be a couple—even a fake one—that formality makes no sense.
"Yes," I say finally. "If we're doing this, you should at least call me Charlie. It would look weird if my boyfriend was calling me Charlotte."
He nods, something like relief crossing his features. "Charlie," he says, testing it out, and there's an unexpected warmth in how he says it that makes my stomach flutter.
"What about you?" I ask. "What should I call you? Sebastian feels a bit formal for someone I'm supposedly sleeping with multiple times a week."
His eyes brighten with mischief. "You could call me 'The Mountain King.'"
I nearly choke on the pasta I just took a bite of. "I'm sorry, what?"
"The Mountain King," he repeats with complete seriousness, though his eyes dance with suppressed laughter. "It was my professional snowboarder nickname. The announcers would say, 'Here comes Sebastian, The Mountain King, Montgomery carving up the slopes like they belong to him!'"
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline that doesn't come. "You cannot be serious right now."
"What? Too much?" He takes another bite of steak, maintaining his innocent expression. "Some of my fans used to shorten it to just 'Your Majesty' if that's easier."
"I will not be calling you that," I say firmly, setting down my fork. "Not now, not ever, not if you were the last man on earth and I needed your help to restart civilization."
He breaks then, a deep laugh rumbling up from his chest. The sound is so genuine, so unguarded.
"I'm kidding," he says, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "God, your face. Worth it though."
"So you didn't actually have a ridiculous nickname?"
"Oh no, I absolutely did. But it was 'Monty' – way less dramatic. Though I prefer what my friends call me." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Like I said at the club. You can just call me Bash."
"Okay, Bash," I say.
"See? Much better than 'Your Majesty.'"
"Marginally," I say dryly. "Though I reserve the right to call you Sebastian when you're annoying me."
"Fair enough." His smile is soft now, genuine. "Though I think we both know I'll be working overtime to keep you calling me Bash."
"Right. Next up, we should probably discuss PDA," I say, pushing my plate away. "My parents will expect a certain amount of... couple-y behavior."
"Such as?"
"Handholding. Maybe an arm around my waist. Nothing too excessive."
"And kissing?" His eyes drop to my mouth.
I swallow hard. "Minimal. A peck here and there for appearances."