CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

S ebastian

I should probably open my eyes. And lower my hands.

But once I do, he’ll see how upset I am, and I don’t want that. He doesn’t need to see the salt tracks trail down my cheeks, and he doesn’t need to see my nose red and blotchy and terrible, the way Bryce made me look sometime in junior high, when his words and my life and everything got to be too much.

I am Seb—

My brain is thick. Slush rises through it, destroying all my neural connectivity. I inhale and release. Inhale and release.

I am Sebasti—

I square my shoulders.

I am Sebastian Archer, TV Host Extraordinaire. I am...

I frown. My mantra appears in my mind, and I want to hold onto it. I want to repeat it and repeat it and repeat it until I am all the things I want to be and have left behind all the thing I do not want to be.

But I stumble over the words, even in my thoughts, and all I am aware of is that I have failed once again.

I am not the put-together TV host I want to be. Not now. Not with Luke beside me. Not with the man I most want to see me in a good light.

But then, even though we are keeping whatever this is secret, and I’m pretty sure once I remove my hands from my face and Luke sees just what a mess I am, and that I am not slick and smooth and sophisticated at all times of the day, he will no longer be interested. He might...apologize. He might say...he didn’t mean it.

But really, he’ll be relieved when I’m no longer in his room and he doesn’t have to whisper lies to me and he can play video games and work out and do whatever he and Troy would normally do together.

And because despite everything I do want him to be happy.

I guess I better get this over with. I need to leave this room, leave this apartment, leave Massachusetts as soon as I possibly can.

I flick my eyes open and remove my hands.

Luke stares at me, wide-eyed. “Baby...” he says again, and I frown, because he doesn’t need to lie.

Though actually the endearment works perfectly well in this case. This is certainly my most baby-like moment. I swallow hard, hating the acid that floods through me, that makes pain scuttle through my body.

God, what was I thinking?

Ella and Mateo warned me. I know better. I do. I really, really do.

I rise to a sitting position. Luke is blocking my path, and I pull my legs to the side, so I can get out that way.

I square my jaw. Square my shoulders. Try to square my soul.

Luke looks up at me, anguish in his eyes. “I hurt your feelings. I’m sorry. I-I apologize.”

I close my eyes. I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t want to have any conversation, but this one, in particular is a no.

I inhale and paste my best professional look on my face. My tears have stopped falling. I will look ridiculous, but I won’t add drama to his day. I will leave. That’s all.

“You’re fine,” I say, proud when my voice doesn’t shake. “I guess I didn’t sleep well last night.”

He flinches, like I’ve hurt him. I didn’t intend for my comments to hurt, but some horrible part of me is not entirely displeased.

Because we both know he kept me up late last night.

And then interrupted my sleep.

His gaze drifts to my bottom, and he doesn’t have any right to look there, and I glower at him.

“Are you in pain?” he asks finally.

“I’ll survive.”

And if my voice comes out bitter...Well, maybe I am.

Luke’s eyes round, and my shoulders collapse.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper because I truly am. “I know you didn’t intend for Troy to come in the room.”

He nods at me eagerly, and I give him something resembling a smile, because he seems to like that, and even now, even after all that, I want him to be happy.

“I was being dramatic,” I apologize, more sincerely this time. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. It just made me feel—”

I pause. I don’t want to get into feelings.

I smile again, and maybe then he’ll look happier, and I can go and leave. Maybe I can sneak back into the townhouse Ella booked for the crew, near enough to the women that we can see them at all times of day if anything interesting is happening.

And maybe I can’t, and I’ll tell them I had a bad hookup and I’m never going to use phone apps again. And it will be embarrassing, and they’ll look at me differently, but it will be okay. They wouldn’t be surprised, not really.

It would be better than telling the truth.

I raise my chin. I’ve been through worse. I’ve totally got this.

I walk around Luke and go for my things. It’s weird Troy didn’t mention them, but maybe the angle of the door prevented that.

“Sebastian...” Luke says. “You can’t go.”

I furrow my brow. “Of course, I can go.”

He closes his eyes. “You’re right. Of course, you can go. I’m sorry. I meant, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He extends his hand, and because I’m a fool for him and can’t help but give him anything he asks for, I find myself taking it.

He leads me to the bathroom, and I hate we can’t pretend nothing happened, that I was dignified, that this ended in optimal one night stand style.

We enter the bathroom, still hand in hand, and he grabs a washcloth and wets it.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say.

“Let me do this.”

I swallow back my anger and my tears. Instead, I nod. “Okay.”

He nods solemnly, and I guess I should be grateful he’s not doing victory dances or something. He rubs the washcloth over my face, eyes narrowed, making sure I’m taken care of.

“I didn’t want to tell Troy we were together,” he says finally.

I stiffen. Is he going to give me the whole I-was-feeling-experimental-but-I’m-really-straight speech? But of course, he is. I brace myself for the I-was-feeling-experimental-but-I’m-really-straight speech.

“I know you don’t know Troy well,” he continues, and this isn’t quite the angle I was expecting him to take that speech, so I find myself looking at him.

His eyes are large and considerate. “I didn’t want you to have to trust a stranger with our secret.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not the best improviser. Though I definitely appreciate the training Aisha and Ella have made me to be better. It’s, um, a definite skill set of its own. Not, of course that we’re here to talk about Seeking Mr. Right .”

He gives an awkward chuckle, the sound halting and grating in a way that none of his chuckles ever have been before. But he’s reminded me both that he’s intimately connected to my job, that he knows the names of my colleagues, in a way I’m pretty sure one-night stands typically don’t, and that a significant portion of the country already consider him to be Mr. Right. I’m not the person who is supposed to make him happy. So far today I’ve been the person making him anxious, something else I’m not supposed to make him.

Our private meetings and interviews were supposed to remove stress for him.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, and he furrows his brow.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re cleaning my face.”

“Because I was inconsiderate, not you.”

“You should be hockey-ing.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What does that entail?”

“Exercising, practicing stick handling or...”

“You handled my stick pretty well last night.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re not supposed to make me smile.”

He leans closer to me. “The thing is, I always want you to smile. It’s my greatest desire.” He cups my face. “Your tears make me sad.”

“I’m sorry I showed them to you. I didn’t want to.”

“I’m happy you showed me,” he says. “Because now I know and I can try to make you feel better.”

My jaw drops. This also isn’t the I-was-feeling-experimental-but-I’m-really-straight speech. When is he going to get to it?

“I should have handled this morning better,” he says. “And I shouldn’t have risked your reputation by doing all the things we did with Troy beside us. It wasn’t fair to you. Those walls are thin. And though he does have AirPods and I’m sure he used them, it, um, still wasn’t good.

“I knew the walls were thin last night,” I admit. “It wasn’t just on you.”

“I couldn’t resist you,” he says. “And I enjoyed everything we did.”

My jaw drops.

“Everything,” he emphasizes, his voice low, and for a moment, memories of what we did last night flash through my mind.

“So you’re not telling me you were feeling experimental but you’re really straight?”

His eyes dance. “I mean, that wouldn’t be entirely accurate,” he says finally. “After last night. And probably quite a while before then too.”

“But I was your first man?”

He nods. “And you were the first time it felt so good.”

“It wasn’t bad,” I admit.

“No, not at all.” His eyes are tender. “I’m sorry you had to hide under the covers. I don’t think Troy will say anything. He’s not like that. Not really. He’s surprisingly private.”

“He doesn’t seem horrible,” I admit.

Luke nods then he pulls me closer to him. “Can I kiss you?”

“I’m still...blotchy.”

“You are the most beautiful man,” he says, and he says it with such confidence, I almost believe him.

“You don’t have to say that,” I say.

“Sebastian Archer, haven’t you realized I don’t like saying what isn’t true?”

I tilt my head. “You told him you shredded a fleshlight?”

He gives a reluctant nod, and I smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I haven’t actually used one,” he admits.

“Really?” My eyes dart up.

“I’m not that experienced,” he admits. “And I definitely wouldn’t feel the need to be randomly experimental.”

“But we slept together,” I say.

“Ah. That, Sebastian, was because I really...like you.”

And all the sadness that filled my cells before, that started to drift away when he took my hand in his, flutter away.