Chapter 19
Emma
As we near the theater, our conversation dwindles until it’s just him and me, the closed, dark space, and silence.
It’s hard not to sneak glances at him. I wasn’t lying when I said Sebastian’s large. He’s not as large as Ronan Masters, his Viking action hero costar. Instead, he’s tall with lean muscles, born to wear a tuxedo.
It’s no wonder fashion brands pay a fortune to dress him for these events. He’s polished perfection in his classic tux, with his black hair falling just so over his forehead.
We really should have taken an SUV or a town car. The back of the Jag is too small.
I try to shift away, but even through the layers of fabric, I can feel his heat.
When the car slows to a stop in front of the theater, I make for the door, wanting fresh air and an escape from the nerves caused by my boss’s close presence.
“Don’t open it,” Sebastian commands.
My hand halts, and I turn to him in confusion, but he’s already slipped out ahead of his driver. I look through the back window and see him jogging around to my side, ignoring the row of paparazzi.
He opens my door, taking my arm to help me out.
I watch him with a perplexed frown. He’s not supposed to brave the cameras and fans for me, his assistant, as if I’m his date for the evening and he’s some old-fashioned courtier.
His actions are disconcerting. But I’ve never ridden to the premiere with him either. Usually, I take a separate car, meeting him there.
He puts a hand on my back, guiding me. Butterflies flitter underneath my skin, stopping to make a fuss at my chest, then making their way to my stomach and lower, before tingling down to my toes.
Flashes blind. People scream.
He tugs at the back of my dress, and I turn to shoot him a questioning glance over my shoulder. “What?” I hiss.
He leans down and speaks into my ear, making those damn butterflies flit harder. “The price tag was sticking out.”
“Oh.” I try to play it cool. “I must have forgotten to cut it off.”
His jaw clenches.
I straighten my posture until I’m ballerina-poised, aware of all the cameras on us, but I can’t meet his eyes. My gaze slides nervously over the crowd waiting behind a rope.
“Don’t bullshit, Em. You know I can tell when you’re lying. Just like you know when I am.”
“Oh really? What’s my tell?” I whisper.
“Your right eye twitches.”
“It does not.” I feel my eye twitching. It’s slight. But there. Damn.
“So what’s with the tag?”
I shrug, looking down. “I knew if I sat with you, I’d be in the spotlight. I don’t have a magic fairy godmother or unlimited funds, so… this dress is getting returned in perfect condition.”
“Shit. I didn’t even think… You should have arranged one. You have a direct line to my stylist. To dozens of designers.”
“They dress stars. They won’t send a free dress to the assistant.”
“You could have billed it to me. Damn it, Em.”
“I handled it,” I retort.
He pulls his hair, ruffling the perfect style. But it’s Sebastian. So, the strands fall back in artful lines.
“This was supposed to be fun for you. A—”
“A bribe. A treat to entice me not to quit. Because who wouldn’t want to be on your arm?” I’m careful to keep my voice steady and my face neutral. Too many cameras are trained on us.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he looks down at the tag, quickly slipping it into his pocket.
“You’re not returning the dress. And you’re not paying for it yourself. I’ll deposit the money into your account.”
“You sure as hell will.” I say, my Southern accent tingeing my voice. It comes back when I’m annoyed. “Because you just tore the tag. So now I can’t return it.”
His brows knit further. “You don’t do this regularly, do you?”
I look away.
“Em,” he growls. He’s stopped walking and is staring at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time.
I eye the photographers nervously. Despite other celebrities arriving, there are way too many people focusing on us. “We need to move,” I hiss. “We’re attracting attention.”
“No one can hear. I’ll start walking when you start talking.”
“Fine. Yes. Not often.” I feel hot. “I don’t want to look unprofessional by wearing the wrong thing.
I know I don’t have to. But I don’t like to look…
lesser,” I bite out in embarrassment at admitting it.
“When I first started working for you, I wasn’t used to being photographed.
And I made the mistake of reading the comments on social media.
I was heavily critiqued,” I say with a wry grimace.
My first few months working for him did a brutal number on my self-esteem.
As Sebastian’s assistant, I’m in more than my share of his pap shots, often trailing behind him staring at my phone to manage some crisis or juggling high-protein lunch orders.
I’ve even accumulated fans and haters, with many of them wondering if Sebastian and I have ever hooked up.
Once, years ago, I got caught unawares in an ill-advised hat, boxy shirt, and a too-short skirt. My only excuse is that it was the most dreaded of combinations—a bad hair day combined with laundry day. The internet was merciless.
I cried for a week, but it taught me a few lessons.
First, that immaculate hair and a good wardrobe are armor, a shield that must be wielded at all costs.
Second, I learned to always check the mirror to see how I look from behind before leaving the house.
My final lesson, perhaps the most important, is that a hat is never a good idea, especially not for me.
I vowed back then that I’d do whatever it took, short of larceny, to dress impeccably. To never stand out.
He takes a finger and tucks a strand that’s become loose behind my ear. His gentle touch makes me tremble. “You’d never be less. No matter what you wear. And I didn’t know. I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”
I nod. The unexpected emotion in his voice makes my heart turn over.
He finally starts moving again. But his hand stays on my back.
I focus on not falling in my stilettos. But the light-headed feeling doesn’t leave. It’s just because I skipped lunch and haven’t had time to eat dinner.
The problem is, I’m not good at lying, even to myself.