CHAPTER SEVEN

S ebastian

The Back Bay townhouse the women will live in looms before me, all Gilded Age grandeur.

I’m not nervous. No way. Not me.

I’ve done this show before. I’m the longest lasting host of Seeking Mr. Right. I’m not a novice. I’m supposed to be here.

The decorators have transformed the building into a winter paradise, ready for Luke’s—and the women’s—arrival this evening. Garlands drape the marble fireplace and crimson velvet pillows rest on every seat, their golden tassels glimmering. Paper angels spread their paper wings, and glossy nutcrackers beam. White lights glow in their customary sophisticated manner, and the whole place smells like oranges and cloves.

“I feel like I’ve stepped back into time,” I say.

“I know!” Ella twirls around with all the joy of someone who loves her job and isn’t burdened by her bully’s brother descending upon her workplace. But then, Ella probably wasn’t bullied by whatever mean girls roam Orange County high schools. Ella is charming and bubbly and perfect.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” Ella continues, her green eyes sparkling with the force of some of the same-colored ornaments.

I nod, but the only thing I can think about is that if I didn’t fit in Massachusetts in the 2010s, there’s no way I would have fit into Massachusetts in the 1810s.

I would have been held with the same derision, the same scorn. Only then, I wouldn’t have had anywhere to escape.

I want to be back in California. I want to be gazing at a shimmering blue ocean and dusty hills, where no one knows who I used to be.

A large Christmas tree sits in the drawing room, adorned with ornaments my grandparents, if I’d ever met them, would have deemed old-fashioned. Red and gold bulbs sit beside straw hand-crafted reindeer and felt Santas with fluffy cotton beards.

“Just like a traditional Christmas,” Ella says, and I nod, even though it’s nothing like the Christmases I used to have as a child.

Our tree would be skinny, flung into the trunk on Christmas Eve, when the deals were the best, even though the pine needles would already be gold and flaking, and no amount of water could ever revive it. We would pick up Christmas gear from Walmart, usually a new box of the cheapest sparkling offerings mass produced in China, because our original boxes would inevitably not survive our move from rental property to even cheaper rental property to occasionally the projects, depending on how dependable Mom’s never-long-lasting-meager-paying job was.

“Good job, Ella.”

The windows face townhouses on Commonwealth Avenue. The ornate stone facades will look amazing even on the smallest phone screens.

“What about the floral crowns?” I ask.

Ella shows me the room where Luke will make decisions on which women will get through to the next round. He’ll half the ten women in the first week, then will eliminate one woman for the next three weeks. The finale will be on Christmas Eve and will be aired live where he will choose between two women.

The floral crowns are made from poinsettias, just like I asked, and I remind myself that this will be as wonderful as every other Seeking Mr. Right in the past. I know what I’m doing. I’m a professional. This will be amazing, no matter how much my stomach twists.

“You should pick him up now,” Ella says.

Right.

Ella knew I didn’t need a lengthy tour of the house.

“Sure,” I say brightly, because I’m so not nervous, because everything is really, really fine. “Tell the women to get ready.”

LUKE

I pace my room and fiddle with my bow tie for the umpteenth time. This is ridiculous. I so want to murder Troy.

The doorbell rings.

Shit.

I exit my bedroom and go buzz him in, my bow tie still loose. His footsteps pad up the stairs, and my heart speeds.

I swing open the door. Sebastian’s eyes flare, then he ducks his head down, pink spreading over his cheeks. He’s dressed in a tuxedo. The black color gleams against the blonde strands of his hair, every lock perfectly in place.

I swallow hard, then open the door wider and usher him inside.

He slips by me, moving as far away from me as he can, and his cheeks are the sort of pale new rookies get. He inhales though, and the glint in his blue eyes is hard, and his jaw does not quiver. “You’re supposed to be ready.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I should have sent makeup to you.”

“I don’t need makeup,” I grumble.

“You don’t know how to tie a bow tie?”

“I guess not.”

His lips twitch. “Well, luckily I’m a bow tie expert. You can always ask for help.”

“I can handle a regular tie fine.” I tug at the offending strip of fabric.

“Let me do it.” His voice goes soft, and he doesn’t quite meet my eyes, but I guess he’s focused on the black fabric that’s currently the bane of my existence.

“I think it’s too wrinkled. There should be an iron somewhere.” I squeeze my eyes. Ironing isn’t one of the things I do. Athletic wear is my preferred fashion.

“It’s fine.” His voice is soothing and professional and for a moment I want to sink into it, if such a thing were possible, but then he doesn’t even remember me. He hates hockey players. He told Ella.

Maybe I blended into the walls of the high school, as unmemorable as an inspirational poster or one of the trophies that sat behind glass.

“Probably the cardiologist would know how to tie a bow tie,” I mumble.

“Where’s your mirror?” he asks instead, and I lead him to my bedroom.

His gaze flicks to the bed, and his face is even paler than before, which is weird, because my face feels redder and heat swirls through me. I feel embarrassed and awkward, like I’m fourteen again.

Melissa McCrune. She took me to Junior Prom when I was a freshman then took my virginity.

My friends were happy for me.

I was confused.

“Come.” He waits for me by the mirror, and I stare at him and at his reflection. That’s probably why he seems to fill the room.

I join him, but I don’t not notice the slight grimace he makes. He moves toward me quickly and professionally, and maybe I imagined the wariness in his gaze.

He stands behind me and ties my bow tie around my neck. I inhale some fancy cologne that’s nothing like the soap Troy and I use. It smells expensive, and I try to name the notes, but then he moves back, and I realize I’m inhaling and maybe that’s not something I’m supposed to do.

“See, you hold it like this,” he says in his tenor voice. “Then you cross it and fold it.”

He makes the moves slowly, and I try to focus, even though it’s strangely difficult. He’s three inches shorter than me, and when his cheeks brush against mine, he inhales sharply.

“Sorry,” I say.

He gives a tight smile. “You’re, um, good.”

His long lashes flicker downward, and I note at this close angle how the light hits his cheekbones.

He moves slowly, because I’m sure he doesn’t want to have to do this for me every time I have to dress up, and he bites his lower lip in concentration.

In Ashcove High some of the people used to call him pretty, but he’s only gotten prettier now. His blue eyes are wide-set, his features symmetrical like a Russian-painted doll.

I look down, my heart beating harder, even though my heart rate is normally pretty tame.

But I guess normally I’m not about to meet loads of women and be on television. Maybe one of them will become my wife, and we’ll live in happily ever after bliss.

My mind drifts to Sebastian again.

His fingers are long and narrow like his body, his fingernails are perfectly groomed, his skin soft when it accidentally touches my neck. My nerve endings zing, clearly as nervous and as on edge about this first filming as every other part of me.

Finally, his hands leave my neck, and I shiver, even though the room can’t possibly be much colder.

“The limo is downstairs,” Sebastian says, not looking at me. “The driver is circling.”

“Right.” I nod more times than necessary. “Super.”

“Uh-huh.”

I glance at the mirror. The tie is perfect. “Thanks.”

“All in a day’s work.”

“Okay.” I smooth my hair again, then yank my hand down when I see my fingers shake.

“It will be fine,” Sebastian said. “You’ll be great. They’ll love you.”

We leave the apartment, and the limo pulls over.

God, I can’t seriously be going to be in a limo waiting to be taken to meet ten women.

“This feels surreal.” My neck burns where Sebastian’s fingers touched me, and I have to stop myself from reaching up to trace the path they took.