Chapter 26
Emma
Sometimes waking is a soft endeavor, a slow arrival into the world of reality.
Other times, it’s fast and rude. One moment, you’re in dreamland, and the next, you’re viscerally aware of the world.
This morning is the latter.
Consciousness arrives, sharp and swift, with the awareness that someone is staring at me. My eyes pop open. And I gaze into Sebastian’s handsome face peering down at me as he stands at the side of the bed.
I squeak and pull the covers up to my chin. “Shit. What are you doing?” I croak out.
He straightens to his full height. “Just making sure you’re still alive. You slept in longer than I did again.”
I yawn and stretch. My whole body feels heavy. I fell into another deep stupor last evening. I must still be feeling the lingering effects of the concussion because once again, I passed out on the couch watching movies. Or, I should say, passed out on Sebastian.
All I can recall is the feeling of being warm, safe, protected, as if everything would be okay, no matter what.
I felt secure on an existential level. Like I didn’t have to be vigilant for every unnamed battle that could occur.
For every worry. I knew there was someone, even if just for the night, on whom I could rely.
I only wish I could remember more. I want to know if he held me like he did the other night, as if he’d never let me go, as if his arms would still shelter me, even if the world tore apart.
“Lord, I need a vat of coffee,” I mutter to myself.
“Your wish is my command.” If I recorded a voice note of him saying those words—and charged for it—I’d become a rich woman.
I’m a mass of confusion and longing before I’ve even had caffeine.
Sebastian pulls a hand from behind his back, and my favorite mug appears, filled with the elixir of the gods.
“Oh, sweet baby Jesus, thank you. I take back all the nasty things I mentally said about you.” I take a large gulp.
I almost spit it out. “What is this?”
“Coffee.” His dimple appears.
I glare. I don’t play about my morning cup. “And…”
“Almond milk and monk fruit.”
“The stevia and oat milk were better,” I grumble. “And my creamer would be best.”
“Your creamer is not good for you. The doctor said—”
“That being locked away in jail for murdering my ex-boss would not help me recover,” I mutter. But I take another sip. It’s not horrible now that I know what to expect. And a cup of coffee in hand is worth two in the bush.
Or whatever the saying is.
He grins and turns to my dresser, then opens the underwear drawer.
“What are you doing?” I squeak. I’m fully aware of just how many times I’ve said that to Sebastian in the last few days. And I’m not a fan of it either. “Close that and walk away,” I demand.
“Babe, I thought you’d want me to pack panties.” He pulls out a pink lace bikini brief. He dangles it from a finger. “I approve of your taste in lingerie, but if you prefer going commando, who am I to complain?”
With an exasperated huff, I jump out of bed to grasp my underwear back, then sway slightly from the too-swift movement.
“Hey, hey, hey.” His smile disappears, and he pulls me into his arms.
I shiver at the feel of his skin on mine.
He sets me back to sit on the bed, his touch so gentle and his face so concerned.
When he brushes my hair back from my face, I lean into his caress, like I’m a cat being petted.
“You okay?” he asks in a rough whisper.
I nod, unable to meet his concerned gaze. “I got up too quickly. I’m fine. Other than wondering why the hell you’re putting my underwear in my overnight bag.”
“Matt sorted out the RSVP to the Mancini house party. So I’m packing you for Napa.”
He turns to open my second drawer, inspecting a delicate black nightgown I spent way too much money on years ago. I bought it for a special night with a situationship. I ditched the guy. Kept the lingerie.
“Details, Sebastian,” I order.
He finally leaves my unmentionables and gives me the full force of his attention. I tremble inside, just a little, but hide it.
“We’re leaving this morning.”
He turns back around, opens the third drawer, and pulls out a pair of leggings.
I yank them out of his hand.
“Don’t you know me at all? I’d never pack leggings for a trip. And I’d never allow you to pack for me. I’d end up with nothing but thongs and crop tops.”
“You don’t own a crop top.” Then he pauses. “Do you?” he asks, almost hopefully.