Chapter 25 Now
Now
I wake up with a dull headache.
Half my face is pressed against my pillow, so I force the eye on the exposed half open.
I’m facing the window, light spilling in through cracks in the blinds.
I squint, and a water glass on the nightstand comes into focus, beckoning to me.
I reach forward but don’t get far, which is when I notice the long, tanned arm draped across my waist, pinning me in place like a locked seatbelt.
Sebastian.
I smile into the pillow, then snuggle closer to him. The water can wait.
I wake again an hour later with a much worse headache.
I must have rolled over in my sleep, because this time half my face is pressed against Sebastian’s chest. My body always runs cold when I sleep, and his skin feels like hot pavement in comparison.
The light smattering of hair on his chest tickles my nose.
Indulging myself, I let my eyes travel over his perfect body.
Then I give him a nudge.
He groans, but his eyes remain closed. With his left arm, which is braced across the small of my back, he pulls me closer to him. “Coffee?” he asks.
“Mmm. For sure. But water first.”
We split the glass on my nightstand, and then Sebastian pads to the kitchen to pour two more.
I hear him switch on the coffee maker before he returns.
He has no shirt on, a pair of joggers slung low across his hips, exposing a part of his waist that sort of makes my throat close if I look at it for too long.
“I’m realizing there’s a reason we didn’t play those drinking games with wine in high school and college,” I say, pushing myself up to a sitting position. I reach for one of the glasses he’s holding and gulp it down.
“If I remember correctly, you weren’t a huge fan of Natty Light, either.” I roll my eyes at this. He sits facing me on the bed, then pulls me onto his lap. “Even when you’re hungover, you look pretty.”
I laugh in a way that sounds like the verbal manifestation of a blush.
My hair is a mess, I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup and I am wearing a pajama shorts set that I bought at Marshalls ironically, because the pattern had reminded me of an ugly tablecloth my grandmother had owned.
I’m not exactly used to impressing overnight guests.
I make a mental note to finally take Maren’s advice and order some lingerie.
I’m also flattered that Sebastian apparently likes me this way.
“You’re no slouch, either,” I say, our noses brushing. He kisses me, and I think, This is what morning Sebastian tastes like. It may be my favorite Sebastian flavor yet.
Sebastian pulls on a hoodie (to my dismay), so I change into my coziest quarter zip and matching shorts—my at-home uniform.
I pour our coffees while he cuts the pastries into smaller pieces so we can both try a little of everything.
He’s like me, apparently, in that he doesn’t want to commit to just one.
Then we relocate to the balcony. We eat our breakfast on the love seat, laughing as we string together highlights from the previous night.
Just beyond us, speckles of reflected sunlight dance across the waves as they roll in.
I can’t remember the last time I felt so content.
Sebastian has been helping his mom manage this summer’s staff—mostly high schoolers, just like we were—and as he tells me an animated story about their antics, it’s so apparent how much he loves working at the restaurant that I register that familiar, hopeful feeling again.
“I wish I could stay here all day, but I should get to the restaurant,” Sebastian says, frowning. “I’m doing inventory and payroll tomorrow. It’s not, like, an ideal schedule, I know.”
“I forgive you,” I say, with a dramatic lip pout. “But only because you brought me pastries.”
“I’m nothing if not a gentleman,” he says, eyes darkening as he turns to kiss me.
I’d have been happy with a goodbye peck, but his lips move against mine like they have an agenda, and soon my hands are in his hair.
I shift onto his lap, and then in one fell swoop he stands, lifting me with him.
I tighten my legs around his waist as he carries me to my room, kissing me the whole way.
“What about the restaurant?” I ask, breathless, when he drops me on my bed. I help him pull his hoodie over his head, then grab at my own sweatshirt.
“I can be a little late,” he murmurs, reaching for the clasp of my bra. “The owner loves me.”
I wrap my arms around him and try not to think about how she might not be the only one.