Chapter 12 Sort-of Date #2
When I left Eric, my parents wanted me to move back home.
I had a room there, right next to Miranda.
Everything I abandoned when I became his was still there.
It could be like I never lost those years to him…
but I couldn’t do it. As though I needed to prove to myself that I could stand on my own two feet—with my parents’ help, that is—I rented this apartment.
I did go home and bring some of my old treasured belongings with me, including some of my favorite outfits that Eric used to sneer at if I tried wearing them around him.
Opening up the tote, I sift through the cotton and denim that smells faintly of another life. That belonged to a different Annaiese.
Soft t-shirts. Cut-off shorts. Blue jeans and leggings. Perfectly valid clothing for a woman in her early-to-mid twenties, and outfits I haven’t worn in years.
I grab a white tee, plus a pair of shorts.
I don’t care that it’s the middle of April.
Sebastien might ride around Harmony Heights on his bike, but every time he takes me out, he uses his flashy Porsche.
There are seat warmers, so I’ll be fine, and wherever we go, I’m sure he’ll be wearing his leather jacket and devil-may-care grin.
Maybe it’s time I match my new husband instead of dressing for the man who never liked the real me.
I’m trembling a little as I get dressed. Instead of pinning my hair up, I brush it out, letting carelessly tousled waves fall down my back. I put on lipgloss and mascara, just enough to make my eyes pop. A spritz of perfume and some lotion to highlight my long, bare legs.
There.
For the first time in years I actually look like me. I feel like me, too. And not a moment too soon since, just as I shove the storage tote back under my bed, there’s a knock at my front door.
I hurry to open it, to let Sebastien in. When I do, I found him leaning against the wall between my door and my neighbor’s. With his hands in his pockets, a soft half-smirk stunning on his features, it looks like he’s settled down, ready to wait.
But I’m ready, and I notice the instant he sees that I am.
That same half-smirk slowly disappears. His eyes drag from my bare legs to my short shorts, my t-shirt to the hesitant expression on my face, and he nods.
“Jesus Christ,” he grates out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Crap.
Heat suddenly floods my cheeks. “I… sorry. I didn’t know what you had in mind, but I shouldn’t have dressed down like—”
“No,” he says firmly, stepping into my apartment, cupping my elbows to stop me from turning and bolting to my bedroom so that I can change. “This is perfect.”
I blink, biting down on my bottom lip. “Are you sure?”
An honest grin tugs on his lip. “You’re perfect.”
Well. If he says so.
He said ‘drinks’. For some reason, I got it in my head that he’d be taking me to the King’s Court. However, once I’m settled in his front seat, it doesn’t take long for me to realize that he’s going in the opposite direction—or that I’ve gone this way before myself.
Just in case, I ask, “Where are we going?”
“The Last Prayer.”
Oh.
When I don’t say anything in response to that, Sebastien glances over at me. “Problem?”
“No.”
Yes.
I’m being ridiculous. I should’ve known better.
Taking me to the King’s Court would mean public acknowledgement in front of half the Owed.
I shouldn’t even want that. It’ll get back to Eric in no time, and my three-week reprieve from his commands will be over like that.
Even so… it would’ve been nice if Sebastien didn’t want to hide me like Eric did.
“I just thought you’d want to go somewhere more… familiar,” I say carefully.
His brows lift, seeing right through my care. “You mean the Court?”
I stare straight ahead. “That bar is fine. At least I already know they make a good Manhattan.”
Sebastien makes a small noise in the back of his throat, continuing to drive until we reach the parking lot.
He kills the engine, the pink neon flickering on the window of his car just like it would’ve the night we met if we’d driven here together instead of finding each other for one moment in time.
We go in together. The bar is half full, a melancholy song playing from the jukebox. I see a row of men in work boots at the bar. A group of women crowded around a booth. Plenty of tables for one that fit this place, with it’s atmosphere of smoke and grit and cheap booze.
It’s definitely not the King’s Court.
After tucking me in one of the booths, Sebastien goes to the bar. He comes back with a beer for himself, a chilled whiskey glass that must be my Manhattan. He sets them both down before sliding into the booth.
Not across from me. Next to me.
Shifting so that he’s looking at me, he watches me for a long moment, then says, “This doesn’t seem like your scene. I thought so the night we met. I haven’t changed my mind yet.”
Not my scene? Well, maybe he’s right, but of the two of us, I’m not the Order golden boy covering up his privilege with a leather jacket and a daring smirk.
In fact, I want to show him so badly that this could be my type of place—and maybe it might’ve been if I met Sebastien before Eric—that I don’t grab my Manhattan.
I take his beer, holding the neck of the bottle between two fingers before lifting it to my lips and taking a sip.
He laughs. It’s a soft, amused sort of chuckle as he reaches for my glass, downing half my Manhattan in a gulp.
My eyes widen. Okay. Just because they didn’t serve it in a cocktail glass doesn’t mean you treat it like a shot, but… damn, that was sexy.
You know what’s even sexier? When he eases the beer from my hold, taking it firmly in his grip, swiping his tongue over the rim where my lips had just been before tipping the bottle back, drinking that, too.
He lets the bottle settle on the tabletop with a clink. “Know what? I think I might like your drink better than that cheap shit they serve her.”
I push the half-filled glass of whiskey, bitters, and vermouth toward Sebastien. Then, with his eyes on my, I dart out my tongue, tasting him on the battle. Not the beer. Just him. “It’s not that bad.”
His eyes gleam in the dim light, and I find myself admitting the truth: “This isn’t really my scene. Actually, it’s only the second time I’ve been here.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Both times with me?”
I nod.
I think he likes that. I’m glad, too, until he asks me the one question I can’t bring myself to answer: “So what were you doing here the first time? When we…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t have to.
What was I doing?
“Trying to prove something to myself,” I say, then I sigh. “I think I’m doing the same thing tonight.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m not sure.”
I dare a peek over at him. His face calls me a liar, but he lets me have it—just like he lets me have his beer and his company.