Sutton
Chapter two
I follow Sebastian into his condo, looking around as he leads me into the spacious kitchen.
I set the carrier with Bert and Ernie in it on the ground.
I hate to admit it, but going home with him is a much easier solution than my alternative—finding a hotel that’ll take me and my cats for the night without charging an arm and a leg.
I yawn as the weight of the day hits me hard.
My stomach growls, and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Probably why I’ve had a bit of a headache all day.
My stomach was in knots, and the thought of eating the leftover mac and cheese from last night made me nauseous.
All I’ve managed to stomach was a pack of crackers and peanut butter a few hours ago.
“You alright?”
I turn my attention to Sebastian. “Yeah. It’s been a long day. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, love.”
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t do something to me when he called me love earlier. It’s probably just a term British people use the way we use hon or darling, so I shouldn’t get my hopes up—not that I have any reason to care, because I can’t date him.
I made a vow years ago that I’d never be with anyone wealthy, or at least not someone who has millions to their name.
Is there a term for the opposite of a gold digger?
Because that’s me. I want to find a nice, sweet middle-class man who loves me and makes me happy.
A guy who is completely different from my father and the men in his circle.
It wouldn’t hurt if he was also hot and knew how to deliver orgasms, but at this point, I’m not sure how picky I can be.
Some women won’t date a man outside of their religion or political party; I won’t date a man outside of my income class, or at least a man who is multiple income levels above me.
Not that I haven’t fantasized about how things could be between me and Sebastian if the circumstances were different.
But even if I did want to break my whole no dating wealthy men rule, because I have thought about it, it’s too late.
I’m pregnant. With another man’s child. I have more important things to worry about than my love life.
I clear my throat. “Where’s the guest room? So I can put my stuff in there.”
“Well …” He shifts on his feet, pulling at the back of his neck, and a sinking feeling takes root at the base of my stomach.
“Sebastian?”
He does have a guest room, right? He’s got to.
He runs a hand through his dirty-blond hair, tugging on the ends, the tips of his ears turning red. “See, I have a guest room. Two, actually …”
“But?” Because I know there’s a but coming.
“They have no furniture or beds.”
I twist the ring on my thumb, glancing around, my eyes landing on the sofa. “I can sleep on the couch. Just point me in the direction of the bathroom.”
“Sutton,” he growls.
“Bathroom,” I repeat.
He blows out a breath and tells me to follow him.
“Guest bathroom.” He opens the door and moves out of the way so I can walk inside. “Towels are in the closet.” He tips his chin toward it. “Extra soap and toothbrushes under the sink, if you need them.”
“Thanks.” I close the door and go about my business.
I peer at myself in the mirror while I’m washing my hands and really wish I hadn’t, because I look rough, my face splotchy red, mascara running. Why didn’t Sebastian say anything? That man is too nice for his own good.
I grab a washcloth out of the linen closet and clean up my smudged mascara as best as I can. Once I eat dinner and get the cats settled, I’ll find my makeup remover.
I stare at my reflection. I’m still not used to my brown hair.
I was blonde for so long, but I was getting tired of the upkeep and the way the chemicals made my hair and scalp feel.
Ironic, because to get back to my natural color, my hairstylist had to dye my hair.
But at least this time when it starts to grow out, it should be close enough to my natural color that I won’t have to dye it again.
One less thing to worry about when I’m taking care of a newborn, I guess.
I’m going to be a single mom at thirty-seven. That was one hundred percent not on my bingo card for this year. Or maybe ever.
“One foot in front of the other.”
I shake myself out of my thoughts and take my hair out of the bun I threw it up in this morning when I was too frazzled to do anything else to it, combing it out with my fingers.
Taking one final fortifying breath, I open the door and am shocked to not see Sebastian hovering in the hallway. Honestly, he was giving protective hovering vibes earlier, and I thought for sure he’d be waiting for me. I’m glad he’s not.
I make my way into the kitchen where I find him peering into the fridge. As if sensing my presence, he stands up to his full height and closes the door.
“What do you want to eat, love?”
“Breakfast food.” When I need a comfort meal, it’s always eggs, bacon, and toast or French toast. Pancakes or waffles are also good options. I’m not picky. Something about breakfast for dinner makes me feel better.
He walks over to the pantry and peers inside. “How do eggs and pancakes sound?”
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten much today. “Perfect. What can I do to help?”
“I got it. Make yourself comfortable. I put your bags in the guest room, but I wasn’t sure what to do with your friends.” He tips his chin toward the cat carrier.
I peek inside it to find Bert and Ernie snuggled together asleep.
Of course they’re asleep. It’s all they’ve done all day.
They love the cat carrier and couldn’t have been happier to hang out in it for most of the day.
I let them out a few times, and they explored my office for a few minutes until one of them wandered back into the carrier and the other followed.
“Tell me which room is mine, and I’ll let them out in there, or I can put them in the bathroom.
They’re litter trained and always on their best behavior, so you don’t have to worry about your furniture.
” I look around the room. “I can’t guarantee it won’t be covered in cat hair, but they won’t destroy it. ”
“Sutton, love. It’s fine. Put them wherever you want. First door on the left down the hall is your room.”
A squeak escapes me when I walk into the room he deemed mine, because it really is empty aside from a floor lamp and a leather recliner in one corner. A tiny part of me wondered if maybe he was exaggerating. At least I have a place to sit? I close the door behind me and let the cats out.
Opening the closet, I find a bunch of hangers. The cats explore the empty room while I go about changing into something more comfortable and hanging up what I plan to wear tomorrow.
That taken care of, I open the door, and the cats dart past me.
“Bloody hell, mates,” Sebastian mutters from the kitchen. “Scared the living shit out of me.”
I can’t help but grin as I walk into the bathroom to set up their travel litter box and food and water bowls. Thankfully the bathroom is big enough I won’t be tripping over it, and it’s only for one night. It’ll be fine.
It’s just one night.
Once their stuff is set up, I head toward the kitchen, and my heart skips a beat at the sight in front of me—Sebastian with his back to me, cooking and humming while the cats sit dutifully at his feet.
His bare feet. Why is that hot? He’s changed too, into a pair of black joggers and a green shirt.
He’s also wearing an apron, at least if that’s what the strings across his back are.
Hmph. Didn’t picture him as an apron-wearing guy.
Not that I’ve spent time thinking about him and what he does or doesn’t wear.
Nope. Not at all. As I watch, he peers down at the cats, a spatula in his hand.
“Tell me where she keeps the treats, and I’ll sneak you some.”
I chuckle, and he whirls around to face me. I laugh even harder when I read his apron—I’m not old, I’m well seasoned.
It feels good to laugh.
The thought hits me like a bullet train, and I blink a few times. We’re not going to think about that right now.
He arches an eyebrow, his blue eyes sparkling, but doesn’t say anything, simply goes back to cooking. I take a few steps into the kitchen and halt, glancing between him, the fridge, and the counter where he’s set out plates, glasses, and silverware.
“You sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”
“Nope. Dinner should be ready soon. Help yourself to a drink.”
I hum in response, snatching up one of the cups and making my way to the fridge. I eye the choices—milk, a bottle of orange juice, beer, and a Brita pitcher filled with water. Water it is.
Drink in hand, I take a seat at the counter and try to relax.
My body still feels on edge with all the events of the day, and I fiddle with my rings.
A habit I’ve had since I was a child. One my father hated.
He’d constantly yell at me to stop moving.
Tell me I needed to learn to control myself.
It took going to therapy for me to learn his reactions were about him and not about me—a child.
As I’ve gotten older and surrounded myself with better people, they’ve never mentioned it.
“Dinner’s ready,” Sebastian announces, setting a plate of pancakes on the counter. “Tuck in. How do you like your eggs?”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ears. “Scrambled is fine.”
He nods and turns back to the stove, and I serve myself a couple of pancakes, slathering them with butter and pouring maple syrup on top of them.
I could get used to this.
Nope. No, I cannot. This is only for one night. That’s it.