Chapter 12
TAYLOR
“So, this is it,” I said, trying to see my home through Sebastian’s eyes.
When you owned a house that pre-dated the Revolutionary War, you got used to its imperfections—even joked about how they were “character” or “patina” instead of major issues.
But for all the jokes I made about this place, I loved the wide pine floors that sloped noticeably toward the chimney, over two centuries of footsteps worn into their surface.
The dark, rough, hand-hewn beams overhead bore visible axe marks, and running from one corner of the room to the other was a hairline crack in the plaster I’d been meaning to fix for three years.
“I like it,” Sebastian said, setting his bag down next to the sofa and turning in a slow circle. “I kept trying to picture it based on your description, and I imagined something more …” He gestured vaguely.
“More fucked up?” I offered.
He laughed. “Yeah. Definitely. A hole in the floor or the ceiling caving in, maybe.” He traced the edge of the mantel. “It’s beautiful, Taylor. Not what I imagined for you—” He snapped his mouth shut, like maybe he’d said too much.
My heart kicked up.
“What did you imagine?”
Sebastian had given me the impression he’d forced himself not to think about me. But maybe …
His eyes cut to the side. “Honestly? I pictured you in a condo. Something modern with a gym in the building and a doorman. Close to the arena, probably.” His voice was tight with frustration.
“I pictured something generic. Like if I didn’t let myself imagine anything specific, I could tell myself I wasn’t thinking about you at all or where you might be. ”
I stepped closer, threading our fingers together. “But you did think about me.”
His fingers tightened around mine, and then he was pulling me in, one hand coming up to cup my jaw.
The kiss was soft and unhurried. Not the heated, desperate ones from Vegas, but one that was softer.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine for a moment before he stepped away, shaking his head and mumbling something under his breath.
His reaction confused me.
“I need water,” I said, clearing the thickness from my throat. “Want some?”
He nodded.
“This way,” I said, moving toward the kitchen at the back of the house, Sebastian following behind.
I pulled out two bottles from the fridge and tossed him one, then drifted over to the counter, putting the island between us.
“Thanks.” He twisted the cap off and drank half the bottle in one go.
I stood there with mine unopened, staring off into space, not really seeing much of anything. My focus was still on that charged kiss, and the way he’d acted after.
But it wasn’t just the kiss. He’d been acting strangely ever since we landed. Like maybe he was having second thoughts about being here. Like maybe now that he was in my home, he regretted asking to come.
“Taylor?”
I blinked, and shook away the thought. “Hmm?”
“I asked if the kitchen was like this when you moved in.”
“Oh. Sorry. No, it was gutted down to the studs. Leaky pipe, apparently.” I finally opened my water and took a drink, telling myself I was reading into things. Overreacting.
“Hey. Where’d you go to just now?” he asked, his voice low.
“What do you mean?”
“When I asked about the kitchen, you looked like you were somewhere else entirely.” He set his bottle down on the island. “Talk to me.”
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired.” I turned toward the window, giving myself something else to focus on.
Sebastian moved around the island to stand behind me, his hands braced on either side of my hips on the counter, caging me in. He nuzzled into my neck. “Want to try that again, but this time, with the truth?”
I dropped my head forward to give him better access, and he placed a few light kisses across my nape. I shuddered when he nipped at the spot where my neck met my shoulder. “I’m just trying to figure out what the next two weeks look like.”
That wasn’t the whole truth, but it was better than blurting out, “Please don’t regret this. Don’t regret me.”
His lips stilled, and he dropped his hands away.
I spun to face him, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. “When you said this has to stay ‘private,’ what exactly does that mean?”
Surprise flickered across his face, then guilt … and maybe annoyance. He took half a step back, his hand coming up to scratch his jaw. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t fair to you.”
“I’m not looking for an apology. I just need to know what I’m working with.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
He didn't answer right away, his eyes flicking to the window. His jaw tensed before he dragged his attention back to me. “We can go out,” he said finally. “But no touching in public. Nothing that would look like we’re more than friends.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. Anything else?”
“If someone approaches you—a fan or whoever—I’ll try to fade into the background.”
“And if they ask who you are?”
“I don’t know why anyone would, but if they do, we tell them the truth: I’m your college roommate, in town for a couple of weeks for work.” He offered me a slight smile. “Since, technically, it’s not a lie, it shouldn’t raise any suspicions.”
“So we’re just old friends catching up?”
“Does that work for you?”
I stared at him for a beat, taking in the worry lines between his brows and the tension in his shoulders.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It works.”
His shoulders dropped slightly, relief softening his features. “Thank you,” he said. “For understanding. For being willing to—”
“Don’t.” I shook my head. “We don’t need to make it a thing. I already said it works.”
And it did—for now. Two weeks of being careful, of playing it safe?
I could do that. But what if this turned into more than two weeks?
What if whatever this was between us grew into something more—something that lasted this time?
I couldn’t picture spending years hiding, always looking over my shoulder.
Of being “just friends,” constantly worried for the other shoe to drop.
I forced that thought away, filing it under “You’re getting ahead of yourself.” There was no point worrying about a future that might not happen.
“Come on,” I said, reaching my hand out. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
“Nap first, tour later?” he asked softly. “We didn’t get much sleep last night, and I’m running on empty. I probably look like shit.”
A lock of his dark hair rested against his forehead, and his jaw was shadowed from not shaving this morning. He looked exhausted, but he was still the most handsome man I’d ever seen.
“You’re gorgeous, and you know it.” I pressed my lips to his.
I felt his mouth curve into a smile before he leaned back, his eyes creased with amusement. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” I said, waggling my eyebrows as I led him upstairs.
My bedroom took up half of the second floor. Decades ago, one of the former owners had knocked down the walls of three smaller rooms to create one giant space. The ceiling soared to the original roofline, with exposed beams crisscrossing overhead. Against the far wall was my bed.
Sebastian stopped in the doorway and let out a low whistle. “Holy shit. That’s the biggest bed I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m a big guy,” I said with a shrug. “I take my comfort seriously.”
His mouth curved into a grin, his eyes lingering on the slatted headboard a buddy’s brother had built for me. “Quite the upgrade from those beds back in our dorm. How the hell did we ever sleep in those things?”
We’d slept together nearly every night in his bed, while mine became a dumping ground for all of my clothes. It was cozy. Now, I couldn’t believe we’d ever actually gotten any sleep. We must have been too cum drunk to have cared.
He moved toward the bed to run his hand over the headboard, his fingers tracing the oak slats. “These look sturdy.” He turned to face me, his eyes molten.
I cleared my throat. “What’s that look?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“What was that you said downstairs?” I pressed, moving closer. “Something like, ‘try again, but this time with the truth.’”
“Fucker,” he said, though he was smiling. Then, his voice a touch uncertain, “Are you sure you want to hear this?”
I’d never been very good at ignoring my curiosity. “I’m listening.”
He blew out a breath and spoke quickly, like he was ripping off a bandage.
“Wyatt liked to tie me up. Which I hated, because it felt like he had all the power and I was just … there. At his mercy.” His fingers flexed at his side and he stepped into my space, cupping my chin between his thumb and forefinger.
“But looking at that headboard, thinking about having you at my mercy … I might understand the appeal.”
Jealousy flared hot and immediate in my gut. Picturing Sebastian tied up, putting himself in a position of vulnerability with a man like Wyatt Hastings? I fucking hated it.
But the thought of him wanting me that way?
That did something for me that I’d definitely have to explore later.
“I’ve never done anything like that, but I’m not not into it, so … ” I glanced down, and his eyes followed, landing on the prominent bulge in my jeans.
“You got any ties?” he asked, marching me back against the wall, nipping hungrily at my lips.
I nodded, and a wild, nervous laugh crawled up my throat. “So many ties.”
Every year for my birthday and at Christmas, my sister gifted me a new one. Most were absolutely ridiculous, inside jokes between us that were packed away in my attic. But a handful had made it into my game-day suit-and-tie rotation.
“Where?”
I lifted my chin to gesture toward my closet.
Sebastian pulled me by the belt loop across the room, and I fumbled open the doors. He quickly yanked three of them off the hanger.
“Go lie down,” he said, his voice commanding.