Chapter 23 Now #4
Dinner is family style and better than standard wedding food, the standout being a summery pasta in a bright pesto sauce.
I snap a picture and text it to David so he knows what he’s missing.
And then the band takes the stage and it’s time to dance.
This, admittedly, is the point at which I typically draw a line in the sand between wedding guest Lina and wedding writer Lina.
I could live without dancing the “Cupid Shuffle” or belting the words to “Valerie” with Bonnie and Amelia’s nearest and dearest. But Sebastian surprises me by rising immediately and reaching for my hand.
“Come on, Mariano,” he says. “We might as well get the full experience.”
And so we dance. The band is fine—I’ve heard better vocalists over the years—but they play what the people want to hear, and with each transition we grow more enthusiastic, as if we’ve been following this perfectly fine wedding band since their early days and would never dream of missing a show.
We belt out the lyrics to “Mr. Brightside” with the bridal party and jump so much during “You Belong with Me” that I give in and kick my heels off.
By the time the lead guitarist starts strumming the first few notes of “Tennessee Whiskey,” Sebastian and I are both breathless and a little sweaty.
I’m about to cop out and say I’m going to the bar, but he takes a step closer to me and holds out a hand, eyebrow raised in invitation. I accept, and then he’s pulling me close until our bodies are pressed together in a way that makes my breath hitch.
The male vocalist croons (almost) just like Chris Stapleton, and we sway along.
I’m stiff at first, but then he tugs me even closer and I rest my head on his chest. He holds one of my hands in his; his other hand has settled on my hip, gentle but firm.
He smells different from usual, like a woodsy cologne, and the thought of him taking this extra step while getting ready for tonight makes me smile against him.
But I quickly rearrange my expression back to neutral, even though he can’t see it either way.
The dancing has been fun, but I remind myself how guarded he has seemed all night.
The signs that his mind is somewhere else—with someone else. Don’t get carried away.
“Do you still think I seem distracted?” he asks, his voice a low rumble next to my ear.
“Not since dinner.” I force a lighthearted tone. “Maybe you just really couldn’t wait to dance.”
He laughs once, and the shell of my ear warms with the heat of his breath. Then he asks, “Want to know the truth?”
Do I?
“Yes,” I say, even though I’m not sure I do.
“The truth is you’re right. I have been a little distracted. When you asked me to come, I didn’t think it would be a big deal. But I’ve been in my head more than I expected.”
My stomach sinks, but I don’t dare break our rhythm. Whatever he’s about to say, I need to hear it. That he’s not over Claire. That he regrets what happened between us. That tonight was fun and all but he hopes he hasn’t given me the wrong impression.
“Not because I’m being reminded that I was supposed to have a wedding and now I’m not. It’s more like … realizing I came so close to doing all of this with the wrong person.”
Oh.
“Seeing the way Bonnie and Amelia looked at each other during the ceremony,” he continues, “and the way their families looked at them. Claire and I, we had a fine relationship, but we didn’t have that.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was essentially on autopilot for years.
I came really fucking close to doing something I for sure would have regretted.
And that’s a scary thing to be reminded of.
So, yeah. I’ve been a little distracted tonight.
But not for the reasons you probably thought. ”
I tip my head back to look up at Sebastian, and I can tell by the way he’s looking down at me that he’s being honest, and that it isn’t an easy thing to admit.
But even if the reason isn’t quite what I thought, the fact is that he’s still processing the end of his engagement, not to mention his mother’s illness.
The biggest of my fears and doubts remain, don’t they?
That he’s just spending time with me because it’s convenient.
That he’ll remember why he didn’t want to end up stuck here.
That he’s still trying to figure out the life he wants, and I’ll be collateral damage along the way.
We’ve stopped dancing, but his fingers are still interlaced with mine, his thumb tracing circles absently on the back of my hand.
“Now you’re the one who’s gone somewhere else,” he observes. “What’s going on in your head?”
“I’m sorry,” I say finally.
“You really need to stop saying that.”
“I am, though,” I say, dropping his hand. “I shouldn’t have asked you to come. It’s a lot.”
“Lina—no.” His hands come up to brace my shoulders, and he leans in close again. “I’m really glad that you asked. I’ve had more fun tonight than I have in a long time. Please don’t think otherwise.”
The way he’s touching me, the tenderness in his voice—I know these are tactics designed to comfort me, to gain my trust, but they have the opposite effect. My walls shoot up.
“I mean it’s a lot for me,” I say to my bare feet. It’s almost a whisper. “And I think you know that.”
In all the years I’ve had feelings for Sebastian, this is the closest I’ve come to admitting them. I’m terrified to look up, to see the reaction in his eyes. I doubt it will be one of cruelty or even surprise, but it may be one of pity—and that might be the worst reaction of all.
But when he cups my chin and gently tips my head back, the hunger in his eyes looks nothing like pity. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, shifting and searching for a moment before he says in a low, soothing voice, “I’m okay with a lot.”
Before I can fully process his words, the song changes, reminding me that Sebastian Nikolaou and I are staring at each other in a crowd of strangers.
I excuse myself to get that drink. On my way to the bar I finally catch Amelia and Bonnie, who thank me profusely for coming and graciously accept my gushing compliments on the whole evening before a coordinator whisks them away to cut the cake.
Sebastian is already sitting at the table when I return, double vodka soda in hand.
I’ve started to come down from the adrenaline rush I experienced on the dance floor, though I’m still not sure what to say to him next.
But when I sit, Sebastian’s hand brushes my thigh under the table, sending my heart racing again, and the way he turns to look at me under hooded eyes tells me it wasn’t an accident.
We leave as soon as the cake is served.
Neither of us speaks on our way up to the hotel room. I’m still holding my shoes when we get to the door, and, wordlessly, Sebastian takes them from me so that I can dig the key out of my purse and let us in.
Inside, the silence continues, emphasizing our every breath and movement.
I drop my purse on the counter with a clang.
Sebastian places my shoes on the floor, then drapes his jacket over one of the barstools.
I turn so we’re facing each other, my back pressed against the island, and he steps closer to me, so close that I have to tilt my head back so I can look up at him and he has to curl his upper body a bit to look down at me.
“You’re so tall,” I say softly, stupidly, because I need to cover up the sound of my racing heart, my shaky breath, and it’s the only coherent sentence I can form.
Sebastian’s hands wrap around my hips, and in one quick movement he lifts me onto the counter. “Better?”
We’re almost eye level now. I nod, and then, before I can overthink it, my mouth is on his.
He crushes his lips against mine in response.
We’re both a little rough at first. Urgent and chaotic.
I hook my legs around his waist, tugging him closer, while my hands make a mess of his curls.
The tempo slows a bit when his hand brushes the zipper at the back of my dress, his eyes asking permission.
I nod, and he guides me off the counter, then slides the zipper down my back.
As my dress falls to the floor I reach for the hem of his shirt, untucking the fabric in fistfuls.
I move for his shirt buttons next, grunting in frustration when it takes my shaky fingers longer than it should to undo the first few.
Sebastian smiles against my mouth and helps me finish the task, then moves his hands to my waist.
Here’s something women don’t talk about enough: There is truly no sexy way to remove shape wear.
Sebastian reaches for the waistband—which, thanks to my lack of height, is nearly touching my bra—but I bat his hands away and roll the spandex down to my hips, then shimmy out of the shorts the rest of the way.
It’s ungraceful but quick, which is the best I can do.
Any flashes of awkwardness from SpanxGate are swiftly assuaged by Sebastian’s lips, which meet mine again and then break away so that he can kiss me in other places: the bend between my neck and shoulder, my collarbone, my chest, the curve of my waist. He stops when he gets to the scar on my thigh and runs a hand over it, then kisses me there, too.
A heat blooms between my legs and intensifies as he trails kisses back up my body.
And then we’re kissing again, this time slow and gentle.