Chapter 14
SEBASTIAN
A piece of paper rested on Taylor’s pillow, his handwriting sprawling across it in loose script.
I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into his pillow. It smelled like cedar and mint from his grocery-store shampoo.
I’d become addicted to that scent over the past week. Inhaling one last pull of it, I rolled onto my back and stared up at the beams crisscrossing the ceiling, a content smile spreading across my face.
The pragmatic part of my brain told me this was the honeymoon phase, the giddy period where everything in a new relationship felt easy and possible before reality reasserted itself. I knew better than to let myself get swept up in the fantasy of what this could be.
Except I was already swept up. Had been since Vegas.
But it was more than that, too.
From the moment Taylor and I first met, I’d been drawn to him in a way I’d never been drawn to anyone ever before. Instantly, I knew that we were supposed to be in each other’s lives.
Being here with him now, living in his space, sharing these weeks together, those old feelings were back with a vengeance. The comfort. The certainty. The bone-deep knowledge that Taylor and I were connected.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and forced myself out of bed, forcing myself to think practically. I wanted more, but didn’t know how to ask for it. Not when I couldn’t see how that would work.
Which meant maybe I didn’t have the right to ask for it at all.
Downstairs, I hit the button on the coffee machine as Taylor had instructed, waiting for it to gurgle to life. A few minutes later, coffee in hand, I set up my laptop on the island, determined to get some work done before Taylor got home.
It was no surprise that my inbox was a disaster, filled with emails I’d been ignoring, messages from my assistant about calls I needed to return, and a dozen “fires” that didn’t actually need my attention but wouldn’t be resolved until I weighed in.
I was halfway through drafting a response to one of these when a new message appeared at the top of my inbox, its subject line catching my attention: "Meeting in Portland? "
Curious, I abandoned the note I was drafting.
Sebastian,
We met briefly at the Convention in ‘24—you probably don’t remember, but I certainly do. Your early work on the campaign was masterful, even if things didn’t ultimately go our way.
Word on the street is you’re in Maine for a few weeks. I don’t know if you’re following the Bancroft campaign for Senate, but we could use someone with your expertise. Any chance you’d be willing to sit down for a conversation? Even just an hour of your time would be invaluable.
Best,
Michael Chen, Chairman
Maine Democratic Party
Was I familiar with Kendra Bancroft’s campaign? Absolutely. But probably not for any reasons Michael Chen wanted to hear.
Bluntly put, it was a fucking disaster.
Bancroft was a smart, capable state representative running in a special election after the current guy became embroiled in a financial scandal that had rocked the state. The race had been hers to lose until a rich blowhard threw his hat into the ring, and now her poll numbers were slipping.
I could help her. I knew I could.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, even as I thought to myself, What are you doing? You only have one more week with Taylor.
I’d promised myself that I’d actually take a break for once in my goddamn life. That while I was here, I wouldn’t let work consume me the way it always did. That I’d be present.
I closed my laptop just in time for Taylor to walk through the door carrying a paper bag. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he was wearing a Marauders t-shirt that clung to his chest in a way that was, quite frankly, obscene.
“Breakfast is served.” He set the bag down next to me and pulled out two paper bowls with plastic lids.
I dragged one toward me, examining the arrangement of berries, banana, shredded coconut, and kiwi.
“This looks healthy,” I observed, taking the spoon he offered. “Who are you and what have you done with Taylor Morrison?” I snarked.
For the past week, Taylor had eaten nothing but big, indulgent breakfasts—things like omelettes overflowing with cheese, slabs of thick-cut bacon, and sourdough toast drowning in butter.
He patted his abdomen, which—despite his eating habits—remained rock hard. “Alas, no more trash panda'ing for me. Not with the season only a few weeks away."
He came around the island and settled onto the stool next to me, digging into his breakfast bowl. “Bogart swears by these. Says their macro balance is perfect or some shit.”
“Bogart is your teammate who was blowing up your phone the other night?”
“Yeah.” He grinned around his spoon. “Massive health nut, so I figured I should probably give 'em a try."
As we ate, our knees bumping under the counter, Taylor kept stealing glances at my bowl.
“What?” I asked.
“You’re eating it in sections.”
“So?”
“So normal people mix it together,” he said, stirring what was left of his meal into an unappetizing purple glob.
“You’re such a weirdo,” I said with a grin as he reached out to steal a piece of my kiwi.
“Hey!” I smacked his hand away.
“What? You were taking too long to get to it.” He popped the fruit into his mouth, completely unrepentant.
“So what’s the plan for today?” he asked, eyeing my computer. “You’ve got work stuff, I’m guessing?”
“Some,” I admitted. “But nothing pressing. What did you have in mind?”
“Thought we could finally take that drive up the coast. We keep getting distracted.” His gaze dipped from my face, down my chest, and over my forearms, then back up to my face, catching on my mouth.
“And whose fault is that?” I asked, my voice dropping low as heat curled in my belly.
“Definitely yours," he smiled wolfishly. "But I’m not complaining.” He hooked his foot around my ankle under the counter, his grin widening.
He pushed his empty bowl away, balled up his napkin, and shot it toward the trash can, saying, “I’m gonna go shower. I’m gross.” He stood and stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a strip of pale skin and the cut of muscle above his waistline.
He caught me staring and bent down to kiss me. “Don’t miss me too much while I'm gone.”
“Impossible.”
He paused at the bottom of the stairs, turning back to me, his face lit with that same wide grin that first caught my attention a decade ago. I was such a sucker for that grin.
Ten more days, I thought. For ten more days, he's mine.
Once I heard the water running, I picked up my phone to find I’d missed a text from Wyatt. It was the third one this week.
Wyatt
My wedding is next week. You’re my best man.
Get your ass back to D.C., Sebastian.
Not for the first time, I wondered how it had taken me so long to notice that somewhere along the line, he'd stopped treating me like a friend—like his goddamn lover—and had started speaking to me the way he did to his underlings, people who needed to be managed.
Me
Which part of “I’m done” was unclear?
Wyatt
I didn’t think you actually meant it.
Me
And therein lies the problem.
You don’t fucking listen to me.
You haven’t for years.
Wyatt
Not this again.
Me
Leave me alone.
I’m trying to enjoy my vacation.
Wyatt
You don’t take vacations.
I didn’t. Not typically. But I’d needed one. Desperately.
I’d been burning the candle at both ends for months, running myself into the ground, and Wyatt had never noticed or hadn’t cared enough to say anything.
The fact that someone I’d spent so many years with couldn’t be bothered to ask if I was okay should have stung more than it did, but all I felt was a dull, distant frustration at how long I’d accepted this as normal.
Wyatt
I know you’re in Maine.
If Michael Chen reaches out, take the meeting.
Me
How do you know about that?
Wyatt
How do you think I know?
Me
What did you do, Wyatt?
Wyatt
Nothing, I swear.
Me
Why don’t I believe you?
Wyatt
Because you’re a paranoid asshole?
Because you always think the worst of me?
Me
Gee, I wonder why.
Wyatt
…
Fuck you.
Look, everything is completely above board.
Harkness mentioned your meeting in Kennebunkport.
Coincidentally, Michael Chen reached out asking if I had any recommendations for someone in the area who could jump in.
I gave him your name.
Me
Why?
Wyatt
Because you’re good at your job and they could use you?
Me
And you’re a selfish prick who never does anything out of the kindness of your heart.
So I ask again, why me?
Wyatt
Consider it an olive branch.
An apology for ditching you in Vegas.
Also, yes, I’m a selfish prick, and I thought if I hooked you up, you’d quit throwing this temper tantrum.
I need you at the rehearsal dinner on Thursday.
I closed my eyes and counted to three, blowing out a breath. When I opened them, I started typing again—and nearly dropped my phone when I realized Taylor was standing right behind me.
Shit. How long had he been there?
“Everything okay?” he asked, moving to my side and tipping his chin down to indicate the phone gripped tight in my hands.
“Yeah. Fine.” I flipped it face down on the countertop, feeling my face flush with guilt.
His eyes dropped to the phone, then flicked back up to my face, his brow lifting slightly. “You sure about that?”
I could have lied. Probably should have. I knew how he felt about Wyatt, though I didn’t blame him. But Taylor deserved honesty.
“I was talking to Wyatt.”
He let out a huff that communicated exactly what he thought about that.
“What does he want?”
“He’s trying to talk me into taking a meeting while I’m here.”
“What sort of meeting?”
“Do you know anything about Kendra Bancroft?”
“That’s the lady running for senate, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He moved to the opposite counter and leaned against it, his arms crossed. “What does Wyatt have to do with meeting her?”
“The party chair reached out to me this morning. Turns out they contacted him first to see if he had any recommendations for a campaign strategist.”
His eyes narrowed, his fingers pressing into his biceps. “And you’re going to meet with them?”
I slid my laptop away and settled my forearms on the counter in front of me, my thumb running absently over a groove in the marble.
“My initial reaction was to say no. When I’m on a campaign, I can get …
” I rocked my head from side to side, trying to come up with a way to describe the single-minded focus that came over me without sounding like an absolute asshole, and realizing there really wasn't any way to cushion it.
“Let's just say I have a tendency to develop tunnel vision. I basically have zero chill in these types of situations.”
“But?”
He knew there was a but. Of course he did.
“But I'm intrigued,” I admitted.
Taylor un-crossed his arms to shove his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, his gaze flicking away. “How would that work with you heading back to D.C. soon?”
I wasn’t lying when I said I was intrigued. But the thing that had piqued my interest the most was that taking this job would mean staying here, in Maine.
“That's the thing. I’d have to stay in Portland. It wouldn’t work any other way."
“Holy shit.” Taylor’s eyes went wide, and then he was crossing the kitchen, moving to stand between my legs. He looped his arms around my neck. “We’d get more time together,” he said quietly.
“We would.”
Except ...
I knew myself well enough to see how it would likely play out: we’d make plans that I would have to cancel because of some crisis that would require my full, undivided attention.
Then there’d be more cancellations after that.
Eventually, Taylor would begin to resent me for choosing work over him.
And I’d resent him for expecting me to be something I wasn’t.
And then we’d fight, and we’d stop communicating, too stubborn to say what we actually needed from one another.
“How long?” he asked, breaking into my thoughts.
“Three months, give or take.”
“Three more months,” he breathed out, like I’d just granted him his heart’s most fervent wish.
Fuck. I hated to burst his bubble, but I couldn’t let him go into this blinders on. It would have been nice to let him think this was going to be three months like the week we’d just had, but the reality was far less rosy.
“Your season starts soon, so you’ll be at practice or traveling all the time. And I’ll be working insane hours. I don’t think you can fathom how little sleep I’ll actually get between now and the election. The truth is, we probably wouldn’t see each other all that much.”
“But some is better than none,” he said, his fingers playing with the hair at my nape. I needed to get a haircut soon. It hadn’t been this long in ages. “The best part is, you could stay here. With me.”
God, I wanted to.
But it wasn’t practical.
It would also raise questions.
I tried to let him down gently. “I’ll probably sleep at the office most nights. It’d make the most sense to get a hotel nearby.”
“Oh.” The light in his eyes dimmed, and I hated myself for it.
“We’ll find time, I promise,” I said quickly.
“Sure," he said dismissively, dropping his hands and stepping back.
Fuck. I’d hurt him.
The practical choice was a hotel—I knew that, and I'd wager if he took the time to actually think about it, he'd agree.
But practical wasn’t what either of us wanted.
I reached out, hooking my finger in the knot at his waist, and tugged him back between my legs. "I haven’t even said yes yet.”
“But you will.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Is that okay?”
He looked down at where my fingers were looped in the fabric, then back up at me. “Three more months is three more months, right?”
“Yeah.”
He lifted his chin. "And you’d be doing something you love. Working on something important. This is good. Great, even.”
He was trying. I could see exactly how hard he was trying, and it was so fucking heartbreaking.
“Taylor.”
“I mean it.” He stepped away again, turning toward the window. “This is good. It’s … good.”
He stood there for a moment, one hand braced on the counter, his head lowered. I watched his shoulders rise as he dragged in a slow breath, and then fall. When he turned back to me, he’d pasted a smile on his face.
“You ready to get out of here? I promised you a drive up the coast today.”
“That sounds great,” I answered, already working through how I could make this up to him.
“Give me ten minutes to get the cover off.” He grabbed his keys from the hook by the door and headed outside.
Before joining him, I opened my laptop and wrote a quick reply to Michael Chen, letting him know I was interested in setting up the meeting.
Then I pulled up the thread with Wyatt.
Me
I won’t be at your rehearsal dinner or your wedding.
And I need you to respect that, even if you don’t respect me.
I hit send, then stepped out into the bright Maine afternoon to go for a drive with the man I loved.