3. Sebastian
Chapter 3
Sebastian
S he’s competent.
Which should be the end of it. That’s all I asked for. That’s all I ever ask for.
Competent. Organized. Focused. Able to execute high-pressure events without falling apart.
And Genevieve St. Claire delivers.
But for reasons I have no interest in unpacking, I keep testing her anyway.
Requesting last-minute changes. Questioning her vendor selections. Pushing her into tighter deadlines than necessary. Standing far too close—not to sabotage, just to see if she flinches.
She doesn’t. Not outwardly.
She meets every demand with a smile that’s too tight, and posture that’s a little too straight, like she’s holding herself up with sheer willpower. She bites the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking. Drums her fingers along the edge of her clipboard when she’s overwhelmed. Overcorrects when I’m nearby, like being near me makes her nervous.
It does.
She stutters. Fumbles. Can’t decide whether to avoid me entirely or meet my stare like a challenge.
It’s addictive. And it shouldn’t be.
I’m thirty-nine. She’s twenty-four. That’s not a gap. That’s a canyon.
But I keep circling her anyway.
This girl is more of a distraction than she has any right to be. Every time she absorbs my feedback, pivots, and performs, I find myself watching a little longer than necessary. I can’t seem to stop watching her.
“Third time today I’ve caught you staring at that girl for more than ten seconds,” Dom says beside me, his tone dry enough to crack granite. “Emphasis on girl .”
I don’t respond. I just lift my glass and take a measured sip of bourbon.
He doesn’t need confirmation. Dominic Castillo is my right-hand man and has been with me long enough to read silence like a second language.
“She’s competent,” I say eventually.
Dom’s mouth twitches. “That’s one word for it.”
It should be easy to ignore her. She’s too young, too tightly wound, too transparent in the way she tries to hold herself together. Her control is paper-thin. She over-prepares. Over-thinks. Overcompensates. I’ve worked with hundreds of planners—most of them older, seasoned, jaded enough to play the game without blinking.
But her?
She’s trying so hard not to blink that she’s practically vibrating with restraint.
And the worst part?
It’s not her competence that has my attention.
It’s her mouth. Soft, pink, and slightly parted every time she loses her train of thought mid-sentence. It’s the way her eyes widen when she’s flustered. It’s the curve of her legs in that pencil skirt she keeps smoothing down like it might betray her at any second.
It’s the way she shouldn’t be affecting me at all.
“She’s young,” Dom says, unprompted. “And anxious. Probably high-strung in bed, if she’s ever even?—”
I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut the rest of that sentence in half.
He holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. If you’re thinking of crossing that line, maybe remember what happened the last time you mixed business with?—”
“I’m not thinking of anything.”
“You’re thinking about her right now.”
I don’t answer.
Because he’s right.
The first time I saw her, I thought she’d fold in the first five minutes. Most people do. The ones who don’t usually spend the rest of the meeting trying to impress me or flirt their way into a contract. She did neither. She stumbled. She panicked. She flushed. But she didn’t run. She stayed. She presented.
And then she doused me in coffee.
I should’ve walked away then. Hired someone else. Made a call and brought in a team I’ve worked with before.
But I didn’t.
Because something about her made me pause. Something about the way she tried to recover. The way she stammered and blushed and kept going like her dignity hadn’t just burst into flames.
She’s trying to prove herself. To me. To the world. Maybe even to herself.
And I want to know how far she’s willing to go.
“You know what I think?” Dom says, following my gaze as she moves across the patio to double-check a centerpiece. “I think she’s trouble. Sexy trouble, sure. But you’ve got a soft spot for wide eyes and pretty disasters.”
“She’s not a disaster,” I say quietly.
Dom snorts. “She projected her own lingerie photo onto your boardroom screen and faceplanted right onto you.”
I manage to choke on the laugh that very nearly escaped. It was certainly a memorable first meeting.
“She got the job done,” I say instead.
“That remains to be seen.”
I shoot him a look. He shrugs.
“Fine. But don’t pretend it’s just about the job. I’ve seen that look before, boss. It’s the same one you had with Elise. And we both remember how that ended.”
A muscle tics in my jaw. I don’t need a reminder of that disastrous encounter. Casual is cleaner. Simpler. I make the terms clear from the beginning, and they always agree. No strings. No expectations. And maybe they believe themselves when they say they understand. But it never lasts. Sooner or later, they all start wanting more. And when I don’t give it, things unravel.
Dom sighs. “I’m just saying—don’t start something you’re going to regret. She’s not built for this world. You know it. I know it. Hell, even she probably knows it.”
He walks off without waiting for a response, heading toward the service team, leaving me with a drink I don’t want and a problem I don’t need.
I’m a grown man. A disciplined one. I don’t get distracted by women, especially not when they’re half my age and vibrating with nerves.
But God help me, I want to see what happens when that control finally snaps.
The team is wrapping up late prep for tomorrow’s event, and she’s still out here, fixing a rig that isn’t her responsibility. Checking placement on the table decor that was finalized yesterday. Speaking with one of the electricians who clearly has no idea where his eyes should be.
She’s gesturing toward the string light conduit, but this imbecile isn’t listening. He’s not even bothering to pretend. No, he’s watching her mouth instead of listening. Then he slowly drags his eyes down her neckline when she leans forward to point something out, and I’m already moving before I think better of it.
“Everything running on time?” I ask as I step in behind her, close enough that she can feel the question rather than hear it.
She goes still.
The electrician startles and nearly drops his flashlight. “Uh…yeah. Yes, sir. We’re just clarifying placement on the uplighting units.”
Genevieve turns toward me with the same look she’s given me all week—measured, strained, but never defiant. She doesn’t like how close I’ve gotten, though she doesn’t say a word.
“Go take a look at the main panel,” I tell the man without shifting my gaze. “There’s a delay in the south end. Focus on that.”
My hand brushes her hip as I adjust my stance—a minor shift, nothing intentional. But she jolts like I branded her.
Good.
The man clears his throat. “I’ll, uh—I’ll go check the power panel now.”
“Do that,” I say.
He moves fast. She doesn’t.
She exhales a little too loudly as she steps away. “I had it under control.”
“You didn’t notice where he was looking.”
Her expression freezes. I watch the realization settle over her face, the sudden discomfort in the way she adjusts her blouse and shifts her weight. She doesn’t thank me. She does cross her arms under her chest, which has my eyes traveling south now.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” she says instead, voice clipped.
“And I don’t like incompetence,” I reply, letting it land before I add, “He’s not on tomorrow’s roster. I’ll have him replaced.”
She blinks, caught off guard. Her mouth opens, then closes again. I expect her to argue. I’m surprised when she doesn’t.
Instead, she glances over her shoulder, as if she’s already trying to shake it off and move on.
It would be easier if she weren’t so easy to look at.
Even now—frustrated, defensive, barely holding herself together—she’s composed. That same prim, structured presence. Hair pinned back, makeup minimal. Every line of her body arranged like she’s trying not to take up too much space. Except her eyes. They’re expressive, even when she doesn’t want them to be.
And they’re on me now.
She opens her mouth to speak again, but the lights flicker—and everything goes dark.
She goes still. “Was that?—?”
“Grid delay,” I murmur. “It’ll reset.”
She turns, probably to orient herself, and nearly walks straight into a raised planter. I reach out without thinking, one hand brushing the curve of her hip as I redirect her a step to the left.
She tenses.
So do I.
“I was fine,” she says, voice quieter now.
“No. You weren’t.”
There’s a pause. Not long, but long enough that I become acutely aware of how close we are in the dark. Of the heat radiating off her skin. Of the breath she pulls in—too sharp to be steady.
She’s trembling. Only slightly, but I can feel it.
And I shouldn’t care. She’s not mine. She’s not anything. She’s just a contractor. Temporary.
Too young.
Too soft.
And too goddamn tempting.
My thumb skims her forearm before I can stop myself. Her body shudders, just slightly, and I want nothing more than to do it again.
The lights come back on.
We snap apart.
I take a step back. Then another. The distance isn’t enough, but it has to be. She blinks against the brightness and doesn’t look at me when she says, “I need to follow up with the catering crew.”
She walks off without waiting for a response, spine rigid, steps precise. And I let her go.
Because if I don’t?—
I won’t stop.
And if I don’t stop?—
I will ruin her.
Dom drifts in beside me, eyebrows lifted, holding out a drink like it might extinguish whatever just sparked.
“Still pretending this is just business?” he asks, voice low.
He offers me the drink, but I don’t take it.
“I didn’t touch her,” I say flatly.
“Didn’t say you did. But that look on your face?” He whistles under his breath. “Yeah. That’s not going away.”
I don’t answer. I just walk back toward the villa, leaving the drink—and the warning—behind.
Because he’s right.
And I already know I’m fucked.
* * *
I manage to avoid her for most of the day.
The event is in full swing. Guests are arriving by boat and private jet. The press has been limited to one photographer and two approved outlets, and even that feels like too much. I’ve made three phone calls before noon—one to Max, one to Silas, one to a very expensive lawyer who knows how to make NDAs airtight.
Silas wanted to know if the island bar stocked that obscure Japanese whiskey he’s obsessed with. Max asked if I’d managed to scare off the press yet, and then accused me of growing “weirdly territorial” over the event planner.
Neither of them asked how I was doing.
They wouldn’t. We don’t talk like that.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of staged perfection—guest greetings, venue walkthroughs, minor crises handled before they become real ones. I stay visible. Engaged. Professional. And nowhere near Genevieve St. Claire.
It’s not difficult. Not really.
She’s been just as busy. I’ve seen her out of the corner of my eye—hovering near the catering staff, coordinating timing with the musicians, scribbling notes on a clipboard like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. She hasn’t looked at me once. Not directly.
Which is for the best.
I’m on my way back to the main suite to shower and reset before the evening portion of the launch, when I round the corner toward the elevators and see her.
She’s alone, struggling to carry two oversized supply boxes stacked nearly to her chin. She can’t even see over them. So, she doesn’t notice how the top box is starting to tilt dangerously.
I’m in motion before I make the decision to help.
“You’re going to drop that,” I say as I reach her, already pulling the top box from her arms.
She startles. “I-I had it.”
“You didn’t.” I grab the second box, too.
She exhales, clearly too tired to argue. Her arms fall to her sides, and I can see the red marks on her skin where the box edges were digging in.
“You could’ve asked someone else to help,” I say as we walk.
“There wasn’t anyone else.”
I glance at her, but she doesn’t elaborate, just walks a step ahead, head down, sandals silent against the tile. Her hair’s coming loose from that tight twist she favors, a few strands falling into her face. She shakes her head to get them out of the way, but it doesn’t work.
I shift the boxes under one arm and reach out, tucking the strands behind her ear before I can stop myself.
She freezes.
My fingers graze her cheekbone. Her jaw. The soft, flushed skin there.
She turns her head slightly, just enough to look at me. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
The air shifts.
It happens before I can talk myself out of it.
I set the boxes down and step into her space. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Her body stills, but her eyes track every inch of me, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. Hell, so am I.
I don’t think either of us is expecting me to kiss her. But that’s exactly what I do.
Her lips part under mine with a sharp inhale, like she’s surprised but not unwilling. Not even close. She tastes like champagne and something sweeter. I deepen the kiss before I realize I’m doing it—my hand sliding to the curve of her jaw, angling her face toward mine so I can take more.
She gives it.
Soft, warm, pliant—then suddenly not. Her fingers fist the front of my shirt, and she kisses me back with a kind of urgency that unmoors me. There’s nothing tentative about it. No hesitation. Just pure, instinctive response. She’s meeting me beat for beat, breath for breath, like she’s been waiting for this—aching for it—without ever admitting it.
And me?
I’m drowning in it.
She feels good. Better than she should. Her mouth is heaven. Her body fits against mine like a question I’ve been trying not to ask. I can feel her chest rising against me, the ragged edge of her breath, the shudder that runs through her when I grip her waist harder than I should. My hands find her back. Then her hips as I edge her closer, backing her toward the nearest wall.
She goes willingly.
I pull her flush against me and kiss her like I mean it. She gasps when my hand slides up her thigh, just under the hem of that damn dress. I want— God , I want—but I force myself to take my time. I don’t rush. I just explore the delicate skin of her inner thigh. I enjoy the subtle shift of her hips into my hand and the way she whimpers—quiet and real—when I slip my fingers between her legs and under the line of her panties until I find her bare.
And wet.
And tight.
So tight it stops me cold.
I freeze.
She shifts, hips twitching toward my hand, but I stay still, my breath jagged now.
“You…” I start, but my throat’s dry. I try again. “You have done this before, right?”
Her lashes flutter open. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t even look embarrassed.
She just whispers, “No.”
Everything inside me goes still.
I step back like I’ve been burned, yanking my hands off her body in an instant, even though every part of me is still screaming to take more. Her lips are kiss-bruised. Her hair’s half undone. She looks wrecked—and wanting .
And if I don’t stop, I’ll ruin her.
Not because I’d hurt her. But because she has no idea what she’s doing. And if we cross that line, she won’t walk away from it clean.
Neither will I.
She’s still breathing hard when she speaks. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I say. And it’s the truth. “You did everything right.”
And that’s the problem.
I force myself to step back again. Put real space between us. My hands are already fists at my sides. My body is on fire, every nerve shot through with tension, and still, I don’t move toward her again.
“I shouldn’t have touched you,” I say quietly.
But we both know I will again.
And next time, I may not stop.