Chapter 18
Sebastian
Matt:
Emma explained how she would often go to your room to wake you up in the morning in case you slept through your alarm. Would you like me to continue with the same process?
Me:
Hell no.
Matt:
That’s what I thought.
My breath leaves in a jagged rush.
Emma stands before me in the entry hall of the mansion, elegant and ethereal in a pale-pink gown, a color I’ve never seen her in. She usually wears cream, paired with dark neutrals like black or navy.
The soft color brings out the glow in her luminous skin. Her hair is pulled back in its usual simple style, but her makeup is bolder, emphasizing her heart-shaped face, large, crystalline eyes, and soft mouth.
Seeing her like this makes me aware of just how small Emma is.
Or, as she would say, petite. She has a vast hatred of the word short.
Usually, I forget her size because of her big presence and take-no-bull attitude.
But the gown shows off the delicate curve of her neck and collarbone, feminine sweep of shoulders, and bare expanse of back that narrows to a tiny waist.
She shimmers.
“You look…” I hear the catch in my voice, and I clear my throat.
“You look… nice,” I falter. Because what else can I say?
I can’t tell her she looks breathtakingly beautiful.
Not with her endless talk about crossing lines.
And not if I have any last-minute chance of changing her mind about quitting. I have to be on my best behavior.
For the last seven years, she’s been to almost every event. Anticipating what I might need. Supplying a name when I’ve forgotten it. Steering me away from awkward questions.
These events are like a straight shot of adrenaline to my ADHD and keyed-up personality.
The screaming fans, the lights, the questions from the press, the stress of how the audience and critics will react to my movie.
In my rebellious past, I calmed myself with alcohol.
Or pills. I’ve even been kicked out of my own premiere for getting too rowdy. But that was a long time ago.
Now, I have Emma. One hand on my arm. One quirk of her eyebrow calming and guiding me.
Tonight, I don’t just want her on the sidelines. I told myself that I asked her to accompany me as my plus-one in the hopes that she’ll be reminded that this job can be fun. That it can have some glamour and perks. But if I’m unflinchingly honest with myself, I can admit that’s not the only reason.
I’m way too aware that tonight is the last night I can command her time. That unless I get one last Hail Mary and she somehow changes her mind, tomorrow, she won’t be my assistant. Which means I won’t see her every day.
It still doesn’t feel real. If she truly does leave, I’ll figure out what to do tomorrow. For tonight, I want her next to me—and not in the background. If I only have until midnight, I want it all. Every last baleful look, stubborn argument, biting comment, and reluctant smile.
But even though my words are a weak approximation of what I wanted to say, I can’t harness my expression. And perhaps she reads something of my admiration because she flushes.
I grin. “You’re blushing again.”
“What?” she blusters, blushing further. “I don’t blush. How ridiculous.”
“Maybe not on your face. But you do on your chest,” I say with a pointed look at her pink skin.
Then I hold out my arm. “Our chariot awaits.” I wince. Of all things to say, that’s what I chose?
When she sets her hand on my arm, the contact sends a jolt of electricity through me. Which I ignore.
Emma chuckles. “Which chariot?”
“The Jaguar.”
“Your grandpa’s.”
“I got it detailed. Three times.”
“It’s not very gentlemanly of you to mention that,” she says with a bracing look.
“Well, it’s a good thing I’m not a gentleman, then,” I retort.
She rolls her eyes as we make our way out of the mansion, down the steps, and toward the waiting car.
I open the door for her and then walk over to the other side and slide in.
When the car pulls away, she surprises me by smiling softly. “I like it when you talk about him.”
“My grandpa?”
She nods.
“He was old-school Hollywood… and complicated. But I loved him.”
He had notions that were both gentlemanly and deeply misogynistic. My grandfather liked his secretaries. My grandmother liked her pool boys. My dad liked his nannies. And my mom liked her Valium. Is it any wonder I’m not great with relationships? I think with dark humor.
“And yet, you didn’t yell at—or fire—me for throwing up all over his car,” she observes.
“Well, to be fair, I couldn’t fire you. You’d already quit.”
“True.”
Our eyes meet. And there it is. That silent, shared laughter between us.
“Do you—do you remember much of that night?” I work up the nerve to ask.
The street and the views out the darkened window pull her attention. “Some,” she says carefully.
That one word doesn’t explain what I need to know. It doesn’t tell me if she remembers what she said. Was it just the alcohol talking?
Most of us have done shit we wish we hadn’t when we’re under the influence. I know that, more than most. It doesn’t mean that she actually wants to make love to me.
“Do you—do you remember that night?”
I tilt my head. “Emma, this is one occasion when I wasn’t the drunk one. You were.”
Her chest flushes again. But when my eyes move up to her face, I see shame there. An emotion that should never touch her. She has nothing to be ashamed of. And I want to pull my tongue out that something I said made her feel that way.
“You could be drunk every day for a year and not come close to doing the ridiculous things I’ve done.”
She snorts, her mouth relaxing into a grin.
I spend way too much time saying outrageous things just because it makes her smile. To get her to react to me, like a kindergartner pulling a braid.
“This is true.” She’s back to her familiar sassy self.
“Like the time I fell off that fifth-floor balcony into the pool wearing Superman underwear, and the press got a shot of it. And still, to this day, I have no idea why I was wearing that.”
She laughs.
“I love that sound, princess.”
She watches me curiously. “What sound? And who are you calling princess?”
“I like to hear you laugh. And that’s totally a princess gown. Would you rather I call you ‘short stuff’?”
“I’m not short. You’re just oddly large.”
We bicker the rest of the way to the premiere. But we’re also both smiling.