Chapter 14 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
I sit at the table, feeling like I’m still stuck in a dream.
One I can’t wake up from.
Worse, I’m not sure I want to.
This morning, I woke with the vague, disorienting sense that I made a terrible mistake.
Then, for one hopeful, delusional second, I considered the possibility that last night was a dream. A stress-induced hallucination. A nightmare layered on top of another nightmare.
But when I shifted, the stickiness around my genitals answered that question decisively.
I lifted the covers to discover I was naked. Memories rushed through. I remembered kicking off my sweatpants and boxers, Ivy’s hand wrapped around my dick.
I groan and drag a hand down my face.
Not a dream. Absolutely not a dream.
I stare at the ceiling, cataloging sensations like evidence at a crime scene. My body remembers far too much, far too vividly, and none of it feels appropriately regretful.
This is bad. Very bad.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret every life choice that led me here—including the one where I let my stalker comfort me after a nightmare.
Correction: not just comfort. She gave me an orgasm. And vice versa.
I scrub my hands over my face, then head for the shower like I can rinse the entire situation down the drain.
Under the hot spray, the memory hits in fragments—her hands, her mouth, the way she said my name like it meant something. The way she makes me forget every internal safeguard I’ve spent years perfecting.
I rest my forehead against the tile.
Rule one: Do not get involved with people who stalk you.
Broken.
Rule two: Do not blur boundaries after being emotionally vulnerable.
Annihilated.
Rule three—recently drafted, but important: Do not let your stalker sleep in your bed.
I exhale sharply.
Apparently, I need better rules.
The water runs hot over my shoulders as I mentally draft amendments like a man who absolutely cannot be trusted with impulse control.
No more kissing.
No more late-night closeness.
No more “comfort” that somehow ends with me losing my mind.
And definitely—under no circumstances—no sex with my stalker. Ever.
I nod to myself, satisfied.
These new rules are reasonable. Logical. Necessary.
I shut off the water and grab a towel, already bracing for the moment I step back into reality.
I pat my face dry, then begin rubbing the towel over my body. I freeze, staring at the mirror.
There’s a pink heart drawn on it.
In the exact shade of her lipstick.
Unmistakable proof that Ivy Hart was here last night—comfortable, confident, and completely unrepentant.
I stare at my reflection for a moment before catching something else. She wrote our initials inside the heart.
Definitely not a dream.
And I have a sinking feeling that these rules—like all the others—are not going to survive contact with her.
With a resigned sigh, I head to my closet to get dressed and make an appearance, hoping like hell Drew is not in the kitchen. Or if he is, he won’t notice the abject defeat in my slumped shoulders.
I freeze when I hear his aggravated voice, loud in the quiet.
“No,” he says. “No, that’s not my responsibility anymore.”
I cock my head, trying to figure out who he’s talking to.
“Yes, I know the garbage disposal is broken.”
A pause.
“No. I’m not coming over. Call a plumber.”
Ah. Julia. His soon-to-be ex-wife. Too much like our mother.
I grab a button-down shirt, but freeze when I hear her voice. “Way to stand your ground,” Ivy says.
“Uh… thanks,” my brother mumbles.
“You’re establishing boundaries,” she adds warmly. “Good for you.”
I nearly snort aloud.
Boundaries. A word Ivy knows nothing about—and enforces flawlessly when it suits her.
“I’m proud of you,” she continues.
Drew exhales, long and slow, like he doesn’t realize how much air he’s been holding.
I close my eyes for a moment and count to ten.
When I open them, I shove the shirt back inside, then grab a T-shirt. I’m about to head into a war zone. This calls for casual attire. I don’t want to ruin my suit.
I’ll change before I leave.
Or hell, maybe I’ll just change at the office.
My mind races as I pull on a pair of jeans. I could sneak out, but that will make Drew more suspicious. Plus, Ivy has ears like a hawk, so I’m sure she’ll hear me. Knowing her, she’ll throw herself on my hood as I try to speed down the driveway.
Wouldn’t that have the neighbors talking?
I grab my phone, still unprepared for whatever’s about to come.
Maybe I’ll tell them I have an early meeting, grab a to-go coffee, and leave.
Although I’m fairly certain Ivy has my calendar memorized. I have no idea how she has access to it, considering she doesn’t work for me.
When I step into the kitchen, Drew is seated at the table. He looks… rattled. There’s a glass of water in front of him, and his phone sits beside it like it might ring again at any second.
Ivy stands at the stove. Barefoot, calm, and in control.
She glances over her shoulder when she hears me, smiling like this is exactly how she expected the morning to unfold.
“Mornin’,” I say, trying to appear normal.
Drew nods stiffly, staring at me like he’s reconsidering every decision that led him here.
Same, bro. Same.
Ivy’s calm gaze meets mine. “Good morning. I’m making your favorite breakfast.” She smiles before turning back to the pan, flipping a pancake with practiced ease.
Oh, God. This is worse than I thought.
She’s too calm. Too controlled. Like this was an inevitable part of her plan.
And now, she has her hooks in me.
She’s probably already picked out the wedding venue.
“Great,” I give her a tense smile, sliding into the chair across from Drew like I’m about to be executed.
My brother watches the exchange like he’s witnessing a negotiation where all the rules have been removed.
She sets a mug of coffee in front of me, the handle turned just the way I like it. I pick it up without thinking and take a sip.
Perfect.
“I used the new coffee machine,” she says. “How is it?”
“Delicious.” I take another sip, hoping it engulfs me in flames. Death seems like the only possible escape right now.
She beams, then heads back to the stove. A moment later, she returns with a plate she slides onto the table—pancakes stacked neatly, bacon arranged beside them. She sets mine down first. Then Drew’s.
“Eat up,” she tells me. “You have meetings this morning. And if you don’t eat now, you’ll forget.
” She heads to the cabinet, grabs the syrup, and sets it on the table.
“And if you skip lunch, you get that vein in your forehead,” she adds.
“It’s unattractive.” She pats my shoulder. “I say this with love.”
I nearly choke on my bite of food when she says the word “love.” But I know it’s useless to argue.
Plus, if I piss her off, she might tell Drew what happened last night. And I’ll never live that down.
Drew clears his throat. “So. Uh. You’re… here a lot.” He looks like he’s about to add “uninvited” until I shoot him a look.
Ivy hums. “Every day.”
He looks at me. I lift a shoulder, helpless to do anything to stop this madness.
Ivy leans against the counter, like this is just another morning in a house that has already made room for her.
I swallow hard.
And I let her.
Everything tastes better when she’s here. The noise in my head quiets when she’s under my roof. And I let that weakness disarm me, breaking all my rules.
When we’re finished eating, Ivy takes our plates, loads the dishwasher, and wipes the counter, humming softly under her breath, like this is her house.
When she’s done, she turns toward me with a smile. “I’ll see you later,” she says easily.
I nod. “Bye.”
She shoots me a private smile that makes me both uneasy and turned on before exiting the room.
Drew watches her go, brow wrinkling when she puts her shoes on, then swings her legs over the railing and disappears like she’s a magic trick he hasn’t figured out yet.
He blinks once. Twice. Then shakes his head.
“I’m going to start locking things,” he says faintly.
“Won’t work.” I take a sip of my coffee, my eyes still on the railing. “Tried it.”
“Change the locks.”
I raise my brows. “Seriously?”
“She’s a stalker.” He reaches over and pats my arm. “Stop living in denial.”
My eyes drop to his hand on my arm. “Move it. Unless you want to lose it.”
He yanks his hand back. “Look, Bash.”
I wince. He’s using the nickname he gave me when we were kids. This is serious.
“I know she’s gorgeous. And sweet… for the most part.” He scratches his neck, then picks up his fork. “But her behavior isn’t normal.”
“Exactly.” I drain my coffee, rinse my mug, and set it in the sink. “Have you considered what may happen if we piss off the crazy woman?”
Drew clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Well… no. But—”
“Have you considered she could put a hex on us? Sabotage our life.”
“A hex?” His voice raises. “Are you kidding?”
“I had one woman try to curse me. I don’t need another.”
“What? What do you mean, curse you?”
I wave my hand. “I’ve gotta get dressed and head to the office.”
As I hurry from the room without a backward glance, I hear Drew mutter, “I’m living in a damn nuthouse.”
I shake my head, a smile on my lips. I’m aware how all of this looks and sounds. But... I can’t explain it.
Instead, I run from my own damn nerdy brother.
How things have changed.
I dress quickly, stopping to rub my aching head. I slip into the bathroom, grab some ibuprofen, and gulp it down with a handful of water from the sink.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. I’m unrecognizable. Tense. Fearful.
Worse, the damn heart is still there. I should’ve scrubbed it off, but didn’t.
Sighing, I lean forward, my hands on the counter, studying myself. There’s something else beneath all of that. Something I don’t want to name, but it seems too obvious.
It’s not resignation.
It’s denial.
Because a part of me wants her here. And I don’t know what that means.
I run my hands through my hair, then exit before I’m late.
I manage to reach the garage door before Drew’s voice cuts through me like a knife.
“Denial doesn’t help,” Drew says sharply. “She’s watching you. She’s controlling things. She’s inserting herself into your life like she belongs there.”
She does belong here. My shoulders tense at the thought.
“Sebastian. Are you listening?”
I slowly turn to him.
“She’s not violent.” My voice is low. Calm. “She’s not erratic. She’s not trying to hurt anyone.”
“That you know of,” he says.
I shrug. “There’s never been an issue I’m aware of.”
He exhales, clearly fighting the urge to raise his voice. “You can’t just let someone do this. You don’t leave doors unlocked. You don’t reward this behavior. You don’t—”
“Stop,” I say.
He freezes.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “You’re staying in my house. You don’t get to dictate how I live in it.”
“I’m worried about you,” he insists. “This is unhealthy. You don’t do relationships. You don’t let people this close.”
I look past him, toward the patio door. “I know,” I say.
“But you let her,” he mutters.
My pulse violently flutters beneath my skin. “You’re projecting,” I tell him. “You’re in the process of getting a divorce. Everything feels threatening right now.”
“She scares me,” he says quietly.
That gives me pause.
Not enough to stop me—but enough to register.
“She shouldn’t,” I reply. “She’s harmless. Annoyingly perceptive. Overly competent. Mildly invasive. But harmless.”
He stares at me. “You don’t actually believe that.”
I do.
Or at least—I want to. And the wanting her thing bothers me more than the believing.
“I believe,” I say carefully, “that Ivy understands me better than most people bother to.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not understanding. It’s obsession.”
“Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive,” I say.
“Sebastian—”
“I have to get to work,” I interrupt. “Lock your door if it makes you feel better.”
I open the garage door, already done with the conversation.
“You’re not even listening,” Drew calls to my retreating back.
I pause, not looking at him. “I am. I just don’t agree.”
Then I slam the door behind me.
One night with my stalker and my world’s already imploding.