CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

L uke

I want to keep Sebastian with me forever, safe in here with me, his face now devoid of tears.

The marble bathroom gleams, golden veins winding through the cream marble. Someone remodeled it before Troy and I moved in here, and I like the light that shines when I flick on the faucet and that dances from the top of the crown molding. Technology meets old school.

But it’s morning, and something else normally happens then.

“Let me make you breakfast,” I say.

“You cook?” Sebastian’s eyes round.

“Was that shock?”

“Maybe,” Sebastian admits, and he tilts his head as he assesses me.

“I’m a professional athlete. Nutrition is necessary.”

“So, you’re like the bran muffin expert?” Sebastian’s eyes dance.

“I’ve been known to make some sick high-fiber baked goods before.”

“I thought professional athletes chugged chocolate-flavored protein powder and called it a day.”

“It’s all about the micronutrients, Sebastian. Protein plus vegetables is totally the way to go.” I lean closer. “But those ingredients can be used to mimic all sorts of baked goods too.”

“So, you have a spiralizer.”

“I’m not making you pasta for breakfast, baby.”

His eyes heat at the endearment, and I’m happy he’s feeling better. He’s going to feel much better after he eats.

“It’s not just me,” I say. “Vinnie is a great cook.”

“That scary-looking defenseman?”

“Well, he is most at home with fire,” I say.

Sebastian’s blue eyes widen, and I smile.

“He and Evan have one of those fancy antique-looking gas stoves that are totally new.”

“Ah.”

I shrug. “And Finn puts out a lot of videos on nutrition. Noah and Finn make the best smoothies.”

“You going to make me some ground-up vegetables and fruit for breakfast?”

I smirk. “As if that’s not popular in LA.”

“It’s totally popular.”

“I thought I would make you something more Massachusetts appropriate.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You did live most of your life in the commonwealth,” I say. “There must have been some things you missed.”

He hesitates, and I wish I hadn’t asked the question.

There’s nothing about Massachusetts he misses. He’s supposed to be strolling under the bright sunshine as palm trees sway above him. He’s supposed to look out his window, and not see gray clouds piled so close together for so many months that he forgets the sky is ever blue, but see hills dotted with celebrity homes jutting into the sky. Even the LA haze renders everything in pink and orange, a soft filter all its own.

I swallow the acid taste in my mouth. It’s fine. California is better. Massachusetts has the cold and sleet and the bad memories.

He probably is wishing he’s in California right now, floating in his infinity pool or something.

“I guess I missed Boston,” he says finally. I like the old buildings.”

“Oh, yeah?”

That answer isn’t bad. After all, I live in Boston.

“We went there on an eighth-grade field trip,” he says. “

“The famous end of middle school retreat.”

“It wasn’t discontinued by the time you went to Ashcove Middle School?”

“They turned it into a day trip. Apparently, one of the upper-level trips classes decimated their hotel rooms.”

“I was not involved in that,” Sebastian says primly. “I just got the lecture.”

“Mrs. Kowalski could be pretty scary,” I say sympathetically.

I scrunch my lips together, unsure whether or not to share the next part with Sebastian. He might find out once he goes to Ashcove and maybe it’s not horrible if he can have some time to adjust to the thought.

“You know Bryce is now delivering those lectures now,” I say, taking out ingredients from the fridge.

“What?”

“He’s the assistant principal of Ashcove High.”

Sebastian blinks. “Seriously?”

“He said high school was the best time of his life.”

“Oh.” Sebastian’s brow furrows. “He did rule the school.”

“And now he gets paid to walk around the hallways and look intimidating.”

“Oh.” Sebastian draws back. “Good for him?”

“You happy for my brother, baby?” I say lightly.

“I’m happy for anyone who finds their true purpose.”

“Extraordinarily diplomatic of you.” I want to ruffle Sebastian’s hair and draw him into my lap and give him all the kisses in the world. Instead, I find the cutting board and some cooking bowls and place them on the counter.

“Do you want me to speak to him before the trip?” I ask. “In case you see him?”

Sebastian closes his eyes, and my heart aches. I stride across the kitchen and clasp his hands in mine.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I promise. “You’re the boss here.”

His eyes are still closed, but I know he’s listening. I kiss his cheek, then ruffle his hair because his locks are still flailing in every direction, and I’m a man and not meant to resist such adorableness.

“Maybe he won’t remember me,” he says finally.

I’m not sure if that is correct, but I shrug.

“My brother is pretty clueless,” I say instead, then fill a pot with water and set it to boil.

I set the table in the breakfast nook. It overlooks the Charles River.

“It’s beautiful,” Sebastian says.

“I like seeing people kayaking down it.”

“Did you have to learn how to kayak in gym class too?” Sebastian asks with a faraway smile.

“Mr. C still thought that was an essential part of a physical education,” I say.

“Come.” I reach out and take Sebastian’s hand again, and this time he doesn’t hesitate and takes it. I clasp my hand tightly against it. “I believe Troy already gave you a tour of the apartment last night.”

“Yeah.”

I nudge him. “He likes you.”

“We’re pretty different.”

I tilt my head and assess him. “Yeah. That’s probably right.”

He looks at me skeptically.

“I mean, I really like you,” I say, and it almost feels like I should be saying something else.

But I’ve never said those other things to anyone else, and saying those things to him might upheave his life too much. All the reasons why all of this is forbidden remain.

But for now, there’s breakfast and bright blue eyes looking at me over a table. I hand Sebastian a remote control.

“Robots cook for you?” He asks.

I narrow my eyebrow. “I cook for us. You can choose the music.”

“Oh. That’s sort of nice.”

I remove items from the refrigerator, lining the fruits and vegetables in a tidy row and I remove my cutting board and knife.

Sebastian flicks the music on, and the room fills with the complex bass sounds that only come from fancy sound systems. He smiles.

I sweep into a bow. “May I have this dance, Sebastian Archer?”

“People don’t dance before breakfast.”

“We have things to celebrate.”

“Oh?”

I nod, and I want to tell him I want to celebrate I met him again, that Falcon Productions chose me to be Mr. Right, and now I can see him, that he is as wonderful as I imagined. But maybe that’s too much.

He has his own life in LA. He doesn’t need my complications.

So instead, I say, “I saw you smile.”

And from the way his lips spread upward again, that was every bit the right thing to say.

Finally, I sit him down in front of the view so I can cook, and eventually, I put a plate in front of Sebastian.

His eyes widen. “Lobster Benedict!”

“Uh-huh.”

“You poached the eggs. And even included spinach.” Warmth and wonder ripple through his voice.

“I made the English muffins earlier this week. They’re gluten free.”

He frowns.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“I was sitting here. I missed out on watching you cooking.”

“Oh.” I grin. “I’m happy to give you an up-close personal cooking show anytime you want.”

He chuckles, but the light in his eyes dim somewhat, and we both look away.

Because the thing is, we don’t have a lot of time.

I wish we did.

I totally wish we did.

But I have games, and the Ashcove visit, and an all-around packed schedule. I’m not sure if Sebastian is going to want to risk sneaking into my apartment again.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

But in ten days, it will be Christmas Eve, the final night of the show, when I choose who to spend happily ever after with.

There’s no world where I can be flying across the country to see Sebastian. I have thought about it. I really have.

Maybe if I’d been less clumsy and awkward this morning, there might be an alternate reality where Sebastian and I are discussing and schedules and subterfuge.

But Sebastian’s happiness is my priority, and he doesn’t need to tie himself to an oafish athlete who says the wrong thing. Not when my family brings him pain. Not when cameras will be following me after the show ends. Not when Sebastian might wake up to finding photos of us in the grocery checkout line or the pharmacy. Not when they might be splattered over every social media page, the story never quite dying, even when the week’s magazines are replaced.

I like that he’s letting me have this time with him. Letting me feed him. Letting me hold him in my arms.

This is more than I hoped for, and it’s selfish to demand more.

At some point Sebastian will meet his dream man, the man who doesn’t remind him of all the things he wants to forget. That man will probably be as elegant and charming as Sebastian. He won’t stutter on the camera and blush at inopportune moments. He’ll live in the same city as Sebastian, and no one will find it scandalous if they’re together. On the contrary, people will probably be happy.

The headlines flit through the mind, as clear as if I’m in the checkout counter of CVS: TV Host Meets Great Guy. TV Host and Great Guy Go to Awesome Parties. Great Guy Proposes to TV Host. TV Host and Great Guy Marry in Super Awesome Destination Wedding. TV Host and Great Guy Adopt Adorable Children.

He won’t make Sebastian cry.

My heart twists, but it’s fine.

Sebastian will love that future. I want him to have that future too.

He won’t have it if people discover what we did with each other the other night.

“Good lobster,” Sebastian says, pulling me from the frantic murmurings of my mind.

I lock my eyes on him, on everything good.

“Are you okay?” he asks his voice halting.

I press my lips together.

My Great Guy is sitting opposite me. Not for long, of course. But he’s here now.

“Everything is perfect,” I say, my voice steady, my nerves exploding, thinking about the truth of it.

I squeeze his hand, because maybe we’re eating together, but I can’t resist touching him.

Sebastian bites into the lobster part of the Lobster Benedict. His eyelashes flutter. “This is amazing.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

“I mean...It’s restaurant level.”

“Good restaurant, I hope.”

He stops eating, and some lobster topples from his fork. Hollandaise sauce is smeared on the corner of his lip, but his lashes flutter up, and he grins. “Magnificent.”

I grin back.

“I’ll pack you some things to take with you.”

He snorts. “Why didn’t you put you cook in your application essay?”

“You want me to have cooked for the other contestants?”

He frowns. “No.”

“Besides, I didn’t actually apply.”