Chapter 24
Sebastian
Maybe I should be more chill at having a woman in my arms. Even one who is half naked. Except this isn’t just any woman.
This is Emma. My Emma.
And she’s right here in the low lamp light, smelling like gardenias and feeling like every one of my erotic dreams come true.
Ever since she put in her notice, since I’ve been faced with the prospect of losing her, nothing’s been the same.
I keep feeling things I’ve blocked out, especially in the last year.
It’s like a floodgate has opened, with confusing awareness and pent-up desire now flowing freely, and I can’t dam them back in.
It takes all my willpower to force my gaze away from her body and back up to her face. Her eyes are wide and shocked. And those lips, fuck… those lips. I need to show her all the ways I know to worship them.
There are so many reasons I should tread carefully now. She’s been erecting barriers between us. I don’t want to give her any other reasons to build higher, stronger walls.
But it all flies out of my head when Emma, instead of backing away from me, leans impossibly closer and tilts her head up.
The look in her eyes is soft, needy. But for things beyond friendship.
“Sebastian,” she whispers. That soft sound galvanizes me.
There’s no longer a question. No amount of shoulds or shouldn’ts are important. All that matters is finding out what it feels like to kiss her.
I’m no longer strong enough to resist the inevitable.
“Please,” I ask. Beg. Pray.
She hums what I’m sure is an assent, and wild joy leaps in my chest. Her eyes close in anticipation.
I’m rock hard before our lips have even met.
Now. Now. We’re here. Finally.
I lean down. I’m so close, I can feel her breath catch.
“Shit,” she gasps.
My eyes fly open to find her gazing back at me with a horrified expression.
She sways and covers her mouth. Her free hand reaches between us to pull her towel tighter. And she bolts, racing into the bathroom.
I wince at the door slam.
I stand there trying to process everything that just happened. Then I walk over to the bathroom, approaching it with hesitation. “Em?” I ask with a soft knock. “Are you okay?
The toilet flushes. A minute later, a faucet turns on.
“Go away,” she cries. “Leave me to my mortification.”
“I’m not leaving. Let me in.”
“No.”
“What happened? Did I do something that upset you?” I hunch my shoulders, worrying that I misinterpreted her signal. That I got this horribly wrong.
“It’s not you. It’s me,” she says through the closed door. “I almost got sick. Again.”
I hear a thump on the other side of the door, as if she’s leaning against it.
So I lean against it as well, wanting to feel closer to her. “Um. Should I take that personally?”
She moans. “Concussion problems. Apparently, closing my eyes while standing upright triggers my vertigo, which triggers nausea.”
I wince and mentally kick myself. If there was any sign that I need to slow the fuck down and not rush this, here it is. I was selfish, taking what I wanted.
And it made her sick.
Literally, I think with dark humor.
Right now, what she needs most is a friend. A protector. She’s been there for me all these years. So I have to do better. Be stronger. Resist this pull she has over me.
At least until her strength is back and her vertigo leaves. When lines of fatigue don’t bracket her eyes by the end of the day, then maybe…
She opens the door slowly, interrupting my thoughts. She faces me, looking deeply chagrined. She’s a little green. And fucking gorgeous in that little towel.
I want to reach for her but hold myself back because I obviously lack self-control. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say. “Are you still feeling nauseous?”
“It’s passed. I’m actually hungry,” she says with a rueful laugh. “And I’m really, really embarrassed.”
I swear. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I shouldn’t have…” I let it go unsaid what I shouldn’t have done. Practically attack her like a teenage boy with no restraint when she’s sick. “You should try eating. Get dressed. I’ll be in the kitchen making us something.”
Ten minutes later, I’m flipping a large omelet.
I feel better now that I have a game plan. Here it is: no putting the moves on Emma until she can kiss without vomiting.
I’ve never been much of a planner. Or one for delayed gratification. But in my limited experience, I think it’s solid.
I smile when I execute the flip. It’s been way too many years since I practiced this. It’s not perfect, but I still got it.
“What are you doing?”
Emma stands where the living room transitions to the kitchen. I think this is called open-plan living. I just call it shitty and small.
She shifts her weight, looking self-conscious and wearing a tailored pajama set that covers most of her skin. Though she’s now in clothes, I can’t unsee the way she looked in just a small towel.
I mentally slap myself and turn back to the stove. “I’m cooking. The omelet is almost all done. But there’s toast if that’s all you can handle.”
“An omelet sounds good.” She tilts her head, taking in the eggs, a second pan with vegetables, and her cramped counters full of groceries that I’ve yet to put away. Her eyes scan her sink full of dirty dishes.
“I’ll load the dishwasher, I promise, just as soon as I can find it,” I grumble and wonder if she’s going to bring up the Towel Incident and its aftermath. Or if she’ll play it like it never happened.
She smiles. “There isn’t one. Which is one reason I cook as little as possible. What is all this?” she asks. “I thought you had Duncan deliver us dinner? And since when can you cook, and where did all these groceries come from? It looks like you bought out Whole Foods.”
So she’s going to play it like it never happened. Which is probably for the best.
“Duncan delivered our food hours ago. It wasn’t fresh, so I had Matt do an online grocery order,” I explain. “And I’ve always been an awesome cook. Marie taught me.”
Her brows lift. “When?”
“After The Family ended, but before I started shooting Rebels Academy. Rebels kept getting delayed. I was staying with my grandparents. Since I was a kid with ADHD who was used to being busy, Marie decided to teach me everything she knew in the kitchen to keep me from driving her crazy.”
“Huh.” Emma leans against the counter. Her face is drawn. She looks exhausted.
“Sit, Em,” I urge quietly.
She ignores me. “I thought you left.”
“You heard the doctor—you need to be watched for a while longer.” I shrug with a grin. “And since you refuse to go back to my far superior house… I’m here. You’ll just have to get used to me being your new roomie, at least until you get the all-clear from the doctor.”
“No way are you going to spend another night on my lumpy couch. Your love of a thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets will change your mind.”
“I can handle a little rough. Sometimes I even like it. Besides, the world thinks we’re engaged.”
“And I can’t see just how bad that is because my phone has disappeared.”
“You know that screens could make your concussion worse. It’s in safekeeping for a day or two more.”
“I have work to do, Sebastian. Hand it over.”
“The only thing you need to do right now is eat something so you can take your medicine. And then go back to sleep. Your work is healing.”
Her eyes fill with something that looks suspiciously like tears.
My heart squeezes. I’m not used to this version of Emma.
I’ve never seen her vulnerable. She’s been feisty since the day I hired her.
She always seems invincible. We fight, tease, challenge each other.
She gives as good as she gets. Except now.
All I know is when she looks at me with a gloss of tears shimmering in her eyes, I would move heaven, earth, and all the fame and money at my command, to protect her and make her happy again.
I’d give her anything and everything—except give her back her phone today. Because protecting her means following the doctor’s orders, even if she’s being stubborn.
And I have to play this next part even more carefully.
“I’m trying to help,” I say gently. “You scared me.”
She looks down. “I just… I don’t know who I am without”—she waves her hand—“my phone. And my laptop. And working. And being productive.”
“You’re Em,” I say. “Someone I care about. Even without your phone.”
She whips her head up at my unexpected words. I’ve never defined our relationship to her before. Plus, sincere is not my usual demeanor. Nor is being serious.
Emma’s not the only one who hides behind sarcasm. I specialize in playing the blunt asshole. I mean, it’s not one hundred percent an act. But I lean into it.
The corner of my lip tilts up. “And you’re my—”
“Don’t say it!” Emma cries, trying to block my mouth with her hand.
My heart kick-starts at the feel of those small fingers on my lips. I don’t pull her hand away because I like it there. Too much.
“My fiancée,” I mumble against her palm, only it comes out like mph mhpiance.
She tenses, probably realizing just how close we’re standing together. And how my lips are basically kissing the sensitive skin of her palm. We’re both breathing heavily.
I imagine my tongue, naughty fellow that he is, peeking out and taking a taste.
She pulls away with a jerk and takes a few steps back, her color high. Her eyes are bright, no longer with the sheen of tears, but with something that looks suspiciously like excitement.
Fuck. I’m doing it again. I need to get a grip, and she needs to get over her concussion.
She opens those lips that I’ve just been fantasizing about. And before she can say anything, I shove a bite of omelet into her mouth.
“Mmmfm,” she says. And then she moans. “Holy shit, that’s good.”
“I know.” I grin and slip the omelet onto a plate. I accompany it with a salad dressed liberally with oil and vinegar, since I read that vinegar is good for managing blood sugar.
“Now, sit down so I can feed you, woman,” I order.
With a shake of her head, she follows my directions to take a seat at the small table. I carry two plates over and sit opposite her. “Call me woman again, and I’ll cut you,” she says mildly between bites of food.
“Try the salad.”
She looks at it askance. But spears a piece of lettuce.
“Good, right?” I know it is. I’ve never been shy about showcasing my skills, whether in the kitchen or otherwise. I take a large bite from my plate as well.
“Stop fishing for compliments,” she counters. “I can’t believe you know how to cook.”
“I enjoy it. See, proof you don’t know everything,” I say. “I’m a man of mystery and many talents.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for not realizing,” she scoffs.
I set down my fork. “My kitchen is Marie’s domain. She lives to take care of everyone in the house. She’d be devastated if I started cooking for myself. It’s bad enough that I have to eat my nutritionist’s shitty meals.”
“So what you’re saying is that you like to cook but don’t because you’re worried about your housekeeper?”
I lean forward. “You know she’s more than just an employee to me.”
“I know you love Marie. I do too. I just didn’t realize… that you were that aware of her feelings.”
“Of course I am. I thought you knew me better, Em.” I’m more than a little stung.
Is this how Emma sees me? That I don’t care about the people in my life? Something sharp and cutting insinuates itself into my gut at that thought.
It’s true that I try not to worry about other’s opinion.
Maybe because I grew up caring too much.
I lived to please my mom and dad, my director, my coworkers, and the public.
Except, it was never enough, not for the fans or for the studio.
The entire industry is an insatiable beast, demanding everything until there’s nothing left.
I learned the hard way that people-pleasing is a no-win proposition.
So, over a decade ago, I vowed to live by my own rules, my own values.
Except… I care what Emma thinks. I care a whole fucking lot.
Emma bites her lip. “Have you—have you noticed that Marie’s been…”
“Slowing down lately?” I guess.
She nods. “Since she had that fall last year.”
I rub my jaw. “She should be on a beach somewhere. I’ve tried to convince her to retire.
But she doesn’t have a family of her own.
I’m her family. I offered to hire another housekeeper, told her she can retire at the mansion, that it will always be her home if she wants.
Hell, the south wing of the house is never used.
But she refuses to ease up. Says she’d be bored to death not doing anything. ”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you didn’t notice.” There’s a little line between her eyebrows that shows when she’s thinking hard, which means it’s usually there.
I love that line. I want to trace it with my finger.
Over the years, I’ve memorized her many different expressions.
I love them all. Her frowns of concentration and even her frowns of frustration.
And when she smiles, she steals my breath.
Her mouth turns soft and generous. Her nose crinkles.
Her eyes dance. It overtakes her whole face.
A crack of thunder snaps me out of my trance.
Her gaze shifts up to mine.
“Oh, um. Wow. It’s really storming out there.” She sounds breathless. “That’s not good.”
“Why?” I ask, distracted.
“The ceiling in my living room leaks during a hard rain,” she explains. “They’ve never been able to fix it.”
“You’re not on the top floor. Why would that even happen?”
She shrugs. “Something called an inter-floor leak.” Another crack of thunder sounds. “I hope it doesn’t…”
And that’s when it starts raining. Indoors.