CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

S ebastian

Luke puts the bags down, his gaze also on the bed.

I close my eyes. He didn’t even want to share a room with me. And now he has to share a bed with me?

“Maybe I can see if there are rooms at that motel, after all,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’ll—I’ll take care of it.”

I inch backward, then my shoulders hit the wall. God, this room is tiny. My insides sliver together, molding in new and unconventional ways.

Luke frowns. “The weather is bad, Sebastian. You shouldn’t go anywhere.”

“But—” I stare at the bed again.

“It’s fine, Sebastian. Totally fine.”

I chew on my bottom lip. Luke looked miserable when we were sitting next to each other on the bus.

Luke unzips his coat, then hangs it in the closet. He holds out his hand for my coat.

“I’m not sure...”

“Now, Sebastian.”

I unzip my coat and give it to him. His eyes flare as he takes it, his gaze fixed to my chest.

He’s staring at my jersey.

Shit.

A smile plays on his lips, and even though Luke hung his own coat in the closet, he still holds onto my coat, even as snow slides off and drips onto the floor.

“That’s my jersey,” he says finally, his grin wider.

“Um...Is it?”

He chuckles and flings my coat under an armchair, not checking if it lands correctly. It totally does because Luke is nothing if not athletic.

Luke narrows the distance between us. The smile on his lips still spreads, and his eyes, which had seemed dull and guarded before, now dance, as if he’s found himself in the best disco in the world.

Maybe he looks this way in a strip club. My insides twist. God, I shouldn’t have worn this jersey. That was a mistake.

“I-I thought I should wear a jersey to a hockey game,” I say.

“I thought you didn’t like hockey.”

“This is new.”

He shakes his head, his eyes still on the number emblazoned on my chest. His number. His fucking number.

He shakes his head, his succulent lips smirking, and I hate that even now I’m thinking about what his lips might feel like between mine. I hate I’m struggling not to inhale his delicious scent.

I take another step back, hitting the wall again.

Damn it. They need to make hotel rooms bigger.

He stretches out his hands, and my heart sputters, transfixed by the sight of his golden fingers, and the way his pale hair curves over his wrists.

Then he is touching my jersey, pulling the fabric toward himself, as he inspects it. God, is he trying to usher me into his arms? Images of just that flash through my mind.

When I bring myself to look at him, he’s grinning.

He runs his finger along the embossed lettering. “They don’t sell this version, anymore.”

Shit.

“They don’t?” My voice comes out too high, and his eyes dance, like he’s watching a Youtube video of puppies.

He shakes his head. “This was discontinued three years ago. They changed soon after I joined.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you have a limited edition of my jersey?”

“Um...” I look down. “Maybe they sold out of the regular ones in the gift shop?”

“So you bought a $7000 jersey instead?”

Fuck.

I shouldn’t have bought that jersey. But I didn’t mind Luke, even then, not really, and I thought it was so cool that someone I sort of knew had succeeded so much. It was inspirational. I got my job hosting Seeking Mr. Right shortly after the jersey arrived in the mail and I sort of saw it as a good luck charm. Not that I want to tell him all that. Owning it is embarrassing enough.

“Either you spent a ridiculous amount of money on my jersey, which is not cost-effective, because they have plenty of the regular ones for more normal prices, or you bought it when it first was released.”

He beams, happier than I’ve ever seen him. “Do you hate hockey, Sebastian?”

I shake my head slowly, feeling like a naughty child who hasn’t done my homework. “Not completely.”

He grins. “Not completely.”

He stares into my eyes, and all the molecules that had been building a wall between us on the bus shatter, collapsing into the ether. I feel pulled toward him, like we’re in a whirlpool.

I know that look in men.

I’ve seen it before.

Usually, it’s followed by them yanking me into their arms and kissing me.

But this is different.

Luke is straight.

I wonder if he’s going to ask me about Ashcove. I wonder if he’s going to ask if that’s why I’ve been following his career. My heart speeds. I’m not ready to talk about that and then have to crawl into bed with him.

I see the debate in his eyes, but finally they soften, and he drops his hands and I miss them already, like I’ve been thrust into a blizzard without my coat, without my hat, without my gloves.

But he drops his hands, still smiling, and walks backwards. He picks up my coat from the chair where he left it and hangs it in the closet.

Then he strips off his suit jacket.

“They still made you wear that?” I ask.

“We hockey players always look professional.” He winks.

“You must get confused for investment bankers all the time.”

He snorts, then undoes his tie.

I should probably look away.

I should definitely look away.

But he’s still staring right into my eyes, and looking away feels like one of those ridiculous things I don’t want to happen. His hands move steadily over his knot. Maybe bow ties are beyond him, but not these sorts of ties.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

Shit.

I was staring.

He saw I have his jersey, with his number, his name. He knows I must have gotten it right after he joined the Blizzards. And now I’m staring at him while he undresses.

All the words Bryce used to call me shoot through my mind like I have my own personal firing squad, and they’re all attacking me right now.

“S-sorry.” I turn around hastily, whipping into the chest of drawers.

“Hey.” His voice is calm and steady and soft. “You’re fine. Everything is good.”

He murmurs to me like I’m a stray cat he’s coaxing from underneath a porch, but relaxing isn’t something I can do. Because once that cat comes out, the victory whoops will make it tremble, blinking into the bright light, not able to return to its favorite spot.

“I’m going to change.” I head for the bathroom, then remember I don’t have my pajamas. I turn around. “I need my things.”

He steps to the side, his gaze more concerned than I would like, and I fumble with my suitcase, my hands doing that trembling thing I hate.

Luke finds the folding luggage stand and sets it up by the wall. He then carries my suitcase and places it on it. Finally, he unzips my suitcase, pushes up the lid...

Too late it occurs to me it’s a terrible idea.

Because I know what’s at the top of the suitcase. What I threw in last minute before I left for here, because I don’t have a lot of privacy in Boston and thought this was something I could enjoy.

Maybe he won’t notice it.

I hope my things have shifted, but it’s a suitcase, not a washing machine, and I see the moment Luke notices it. His shoulders stop their graceful movement.

His eyes bulge. His jaw drops.

Yep, he totally noticed my dildo.

“You weren’t supposed to...”

“I-I know.”

He still stands in front of my suitcase. My dildo, veiny and flesh-colored, sits on top of my clothes in its clear plastic bag.

“You put that in...” he gestures in my general direction, then drops his hand.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I hurry over to him and close the lid of the suitcase. “That’s personal.”

“But it fits?” His forehead is drawn together and sweat beads over his forehead where there was none before. He glimmers, like a Cullen brother.

“Um...”

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to answer that. Obviously.” This time he’s apologizing to me, and red sweeps over his cheeks. He’s probably never seen something like that before.

My heart skitters, my nerves jumble.

But it’s fine. He knows I’m gay.

But knowing someone is gay and seeing a dildo is perhaps different.

My clothes are still in my suitcase, and I still need them. I approach him. “Sorry. My clothes—”

He jerks his head toward me, his eyes wide. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

He steps out of the way. I hastily grab my pajamas and tuck the dildo way into the bottom of the suitcase as if it might suddenly show up and make things embarrassing again.

I rush into the bathroom and perform my nighttime ablutions, then I head into the bedroom. Luke looks rather more undressed than he did to begin with. My gaze falls to his now naked torso, to his abs, all eight of them, and his long pajama pants.

He pulls a sweatshirt over himself, and I hope it’s not because I was staring.

The lights turn off suddenly. He’s disappeared, like he’s been part of my imagination all along.

“Did you hit the light switch?” he asks.

“I-I think the power went out.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “They probably have a generator. It will probably turn on soon.”

I nod, then realize he can’t see me, because despite all his superheroesque qualities, x-ray vision is probably not one of them. Moving quickly and being ridiculously strong are superheroesque enough.

“Yeah,” I say.

He fumbles with his phone, then fiddles through his suitcase. I realize he’s probably looking for his toothbrush.

I hurry to the bed and slip under the covers. My new plan is to wake up, fall asleep, and hope he forgets all the awkwardness in the morning.

It’s a good plan.

It doesn’t work.

Instead, I hear him prepare for bed, then I hear him pad toward the bed as I hope that he can’t hear the violent thumps of my own heart. Finally, he slips under the covers, and the mattress shifts as he gets in.

I lie as still as I can. Maybe he can forget I’m here. Maybe he can forget he’s sharing a room with someone his own brother hated. Maybe he can forget about the huge dildo in my suitcase and all the things I do with it.

I close my eyes and hope morning comes soon.