CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

S ebastian

I blink at Luke. “Sorry. I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“It’s not important.”

He takes a bite of his own amazing Lobster Benedict, but I don’t think I actually misheard him. I think what he said didn’t make sense.

“You didn’t apply for Mr. Right?”

He sighs. “No.”

“But—”

“Some of my friends decided to apply on my behalf.”

I frown. His words don’t make sense. “That should have been caught in the vetting process.”

“It wasn’t.”

Shit.

Ella had said she’d spoken to an enthusiastic, chuckling Luke for the interview portion on the phone.

Luke has been subjected to cameras and producers and he never wanted it? Not ever? His schedule has been stretched to unreasonable lengths, because face it, a hockey player’s schedule is already pretty unreasonable, and a reality TV show on top of that is...a lot. He never wanted to find true love? Or leverage his encounter into something more high profile, like better endorsements? Or the simple knowledge he is famous, the hockey star name that is first on everyone’s lips in this country?

No, that wasn’t Luke.

No wonder he is our most wooden Mr. Right. He’s the first one with no interest in performing.

He is so famous now.

“But you agreed to do it.”

“Someone convinced my agent it would be awesome.”

Guilt floods my cells. I can only imagine what the conversation between Nate and him was. But suddenly all of Luke’s sulking when I first met him makes so much more sense. “I’m so sorry. That’s—that’s terrible.”

He shrugs. “And I didn’t want to get the people in question in trouble—”

“Let me guess. Your teammates?”

“It’s totally cool,” Luke says, though given his discomfort with the cameras and the whole filming process, he’s being too generous. And God, he told me multiple times he didn’t want to do the show.

I didn’t listen. I pressured him too.

Regret moves through me.

I sigh. “On behalf of Falcon Productions, I apologize. And on a personal level, I am very sorry.”

“It’s not all bad. I got to spend time with you.”

“So, I guess Troy wants you to date someone?”

He frowns. “I guess so.” His forehead crinkles, and he has an odd look on his face.

It suddenly occurs to me that Troy might come back. I rise. “Thank you for the food. It was delicious.”

“You’re going already?”

“I have a townhouse of women to get to.”

“Right.”

“I’ll see you in Ashcove,” I say.

“Okay. Tell me if you want me to say anything to—”

“I’ll avoid him. Thanks for the head’s up.”

Luke gives an uncertain nod. “Let me get some things for you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to take care of you,” he says, fussing around the kitchen.

I stare wide-eyed. No one has said those words to me before.

People avoided me before, and after I got money and the fame, they wanted those things. I’ve had boyfriends who enjoyed the luxurious side of life, who were with me while they built their acting careers but abandoned me after. And it was cool because I was never into them either. I was relieved I had someone to be on my arm at parties, and equally relieved when I no longer had to spend time with them.

“I’ll get my things,” I say, and he nods. I take my various camera equipment and set them beside the door. Luke meets me at the entrance and hands me a Tupperware container of some baked goods.

“Thank you.”

He slides the container into my leather bag, then fetches my coat. He zippers me up slowly, unconcerned that Troy might reappear.

He gazes into my eyes. “I’m going to miss you.”

His voice is rough, and I stare back.

“I’ll miss you.”

He nods then places my hat over my head, making sure it covers my ears just so, while leaving my view fully visible. Finally, he slides my leather gloves onto my hands.

“You don’t—”

He puts a finger over my lips. “I like taking care of you.”

He then slides my bags over my shoulders, then kisses me. His lips are soft against mine, and I open my mouth. His tongue slides in, swirling against the tip of mine briefly. When he withdraws, I fight the urge to pull him toward me all over again, and his eyes look upon mine with such tenderness. “Have a nice day.”

I manage to nod then croak a response, and his lips twitch, but the tender gaze in his eyes does not dissipate. I float down the steps, float onto the sidewalk, float all the way back to the townhouse.

LUKE

As far as small towns go, Ashcove is hardly terrible, and Christmas is the best time to visit it. Flora sits beside me in the red Ferrari the show rented for me. Open convertibles are not the typical choice in Massachusetts in late December, and I move the car slowly down Main Street.

Flora claps her hands obediently, like she has done for the past four times when we’ve taken this shot, and Willow sits in the back and gazes longingly at me, equally obediently, while sending scathing looks at Flora.

It’s ridiculous. Willow and Flora get along. They practically finish each other’s sentences.

But they’re doing the best to give drama to the scene, and I’m doing my best to not crash the Ferrari and wind up on America’s Funniest Home Videos instead of Seeking Mr. Right: Christmas Edition.

Snow starts to fall, and I grip the steering wheel tighter. My knuckles whiten around the soft leather.

Driving is not my thing. I learned, but my parents booked the cheapest driver’s lessons for me, where I was squeezed four in a car. Then I moved to Boston immediately after high school.

I never need to drive in Boston. I selected the apartment because I wanted to be in walking distance of the arena.

But because I’m in my mid-twenties and maybe also because I’m a guy, people assume I’m into cars. I’m not. Driving in a car is pretty much the opposite of being athletic. I’m a move-my-body-every-chance-I-get guy.

“Sing Christmas songs,” Ella’s voice orders. “Jingle bells.”

Shit.

“I don’t have a good voice,” I say.

“Even better!” Ella exclaims. “It will be so cute.”

I start to close my eyes, but then I remember I’m driving and that’s actually a terrible idea. I give a tight smile.

I don’t even like singing during birthday parties, and I know all the words to that song and I’m surrounded by more people than...two. And those voices are male. Flora’s and Willow’s voices will sound decidedly different from mine.

I grip the wheel of the steering wheel. “Um...”

Willow and Flora exchange glances, then we all begin singing Jingle Bells.

It’s okay. I mean, it’s not terrible. And when we finally park, Ella smiles, which is better than her not smiling.

I get out of the car. My eyes drift around. “Is Sebastian not here?”

Ella and Mateo exchange glances, the meaningful kind, and I’m not sure what that means, but the snowflakes suddenly fall faster, aiming straight for the back of my neck.

“He’s somewhere else,” Ella says.

“Cool.” I try to nod disinterestedly, regretting I said anything about him.

“This town is gorgeous!” Flora exclaims.

“Fantastic!” Willow says with equal enthusiasm.

“Why don’t you ask them if you can imagine moving here sometime?” Ella suggests, her eyes flashing.

“I don’t think I would ever move back here after hockey,” I say.

Ella sighs. “This is a TV show. And you never know, right?”

I nod. “I guess.” I inhale and try to act casual. “So, can you imagine living here in a few years?”

Neither Willow nor Flora need coaching. They answer immediately, both giving lengthy explanations of the joys of small towns and their unique suitability to them. Flora expounds on the fact she apparently loves to visit small towns, and Willow leans on the fact she loves reading small town romance—though she can’t actually remember any exact titles.

“Why don’t you make a joke about how you hope Willow wouldn’t run off with the plaid-wearing blacksmith if you moved here?” Ella says, her eyes dancing.

“We don’t have any blacksmiths here,” I say, and he would probably be wearing aprons all the time to protect against the sparks and everything.

Ella shoots me a look that says I’ve missed the point yet again.

I want to ask more questions about where Sebastian is, but Ella and Mateo seem suspicious.

I rake my hand though my hair and frown. “I’m sorry. I’ve forgotten what I should say.”

Ella sighs. “This is unscripted television. I can’t write things down on cue cards.”

“Right. Of course. It was something about blacksmiths.”

“Just say, I hope you wouldn’t run off with a flannel-shirt wearing blacksmith,” Mateo says, giving me a kinder smile, and I sort of relax.

“Okay.”

“Now.”

“I hope you don’t run off with a flannel-shirt wearing blacksmith,” I say to Flora.

“Cut,” Ella says. “Remember, you’re talking to Willow.”

I frown.

“She’s the one who loves reading romance novels,” Mateo says.

“Right.” I try to smile, but my face is tight.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I didn’t have Sebastian in my arms, and my bed felt cold, even after I cranked the heat up.

I wanted slender arms around me, and I wanted soft breathing beside me. I wanted to duck down and capture a cock in my mouth, sucking on it until salty liquid filled my mouth. I wanted to move my fingers through short, silky hair, and to pull a warm body against my chest.

Instead, the room was cold, and my memories were insufficient, every time I remembered Sebastian is not meant for me. His life will always be separate. There is no great romance for us.

I inhale. My acting is worse than normal. I flick my gaze down the street. Maybe Sebastian will come now?

But only a steady stream of snow-smudged silver sedans slinks down the street, the drivers no doubt irritated they had to wait as I made my own shaky, overly alert way down the road for four successive takes while the traffic was blocked.

I say the line to the correct person.

Ella and Mateo sigh.

“It will all be over soon,” Mateo says, in what I expect he thinks is a comforting manner.

I nod, but my heart pangs.

Because once it’s over, I will no longer even see Sebastian. There will be no golden-haired man for my gaze to drift toward. There will be no chance we will find another way to meet. It will all be...over.