I hadn’t come to grips with any bit of my situation when the door opened again.
And there he was.
It had only been four months since the conference, but it might as well have been a lifetime. Sebastian St. James, just like I’d expertly predicted, had been catapulted to global superstardom. His book, Embers, was on pace to break nearly every record in the publishing world. He became an overnight sex symbol and multi-millionaire. Mr. Already Perfect had gone and grabbed the world by the throat, demanded his due, and been given everything he could ever want.
He was living every author’s dream, but he walked into the bedroom with drawn eyebrows and a glare to peel wallpaper and make babies cry. He was wearing a dark gray sweater that looked distractingly good on him. His dirty blond hair was pushed away from his forehead and his eyes were smoldering pits as he loomed over my bed, looking down at me.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“You’re in my house,” Sebastian said simply.
“Right. I was meaning to ask you about that. Why am I in your house, exactly?”
“You came to my book signing and tried to throw coffee in my face. When my security came after you, you jumped a fence and crashed face-first into the pavement.” He waited, watching me digest his words. I couldn’t decide if he was smiling or glaring but decided neither was good for my future.
I cleared my throat. “I think that amnesia is kicking in again. That doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Mhm” Sebastian said. He was still like the most delectable package wrapped in darkness. His voice was rich caramel, but his eyes were always full of smoke. His lips always seemed curled in disdain, and his hair seemed unwilling to stay where he’d placed it, but only more gorgeous for its wildness. The fact that he towered over everyone didn’t help, either.
It wasn’t fair that my mind refused to focus on what mattered: Sebastian was about as available as city parking anywhere near where I needed to go on a weekday. He was a pretty-looking void of space. Emotionally absent.
Except when I looked at him, it made me feel like every atom in my body zinged to life—like colors were brighter and my senses were sharper. It was just like I remembered, except even more intense. I could already feel the unwilling fixation getting stronger inside me again.
“So I hit my head. Allegedly,” I said. “And you brought me to your bedroom instead of a hospital? Most girls would worry about your intentions at this point. Tell me, Sebastian,” I said, dropping my tone a few notes. “Are you planning to harvest my organs? A kidney, perhaps?” I added, voice dripping with suspicion.
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. He seemed to ignore my accusation and addressed the more basic question instead. “This is a guest bedroom. And I did bring you to a hospital first. They didn’t think you needed to be kept for observation. I disagreed. I have access to Dr. Willows, so I asked her for a personal favor. She agreed to watch over you here at my house for the time being.”
“How uncharacteristically considerate of you.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Kenzie. This isn’t a kindness. Once you’re well, I expect you to be on your way and back out of my life. And I hope we can part ways without any legal trouble.”
I scoffed as realization set in. That explained it. Sebastian didn’t care about my health. He just wanted to make sure I didn’t become a legal pain in his ass—like some unhinged ex he was hoping to placate and shove out of his way. I was almost offended, except I’d kind of been acting exactly like an unhinged ex. “So you’re hoping if you treat me nice enough, I won’t sue you? Do people usually win lawsuits when they try to jump fences and smash their own faces into the ground? Judge! I swear, if you had let him put his penis in you, you’d also be throwing coffee at him and giving yourself concussions!”
Sebastian regarded me with an unamused expression. “I think it would be best if we both forgot about our… mutual past.”
Fat chance, I thought. I was even less likely to forget what we’d done now that he’d put a freaking baby in my stomach. A wild part of me almost blurted as much right then and there, but some instinctive feeling stopped me from doing it. “Agreed,” I said, doing my best effort to sound casual.
“Well,” he said, eyebrows creasing his forehead even more deeply. “I have work to do.”
“Actually,” I said, sitting up and trying not to wince at the swimming sensation and pulsing pain in my head that came. “I think I’m going to be going.”
Sebastian looked suddenly stern. “No.” He hesitated, then lowered his voice slightly. “Dr. Willows said it would be best if you stayed a while longer. Besides, if you fall and hit your head again before you make it off my property, you will have a case to sue me. Stay in that bed. Tell Dr. Willows if you need anything and I’ll see that you have it.”
“I could use some reading material. My phone is dead.”
“I’m aware. I don’t have any chargers for that dinosaur you call a phone, but I placed an overnight order for one. It should be here in the morning.” He cast his gaze to my phone, which was sitting on the nightstand by the bed. I wondered if he’d tried to snoop on it.
I gave him a wry look. “That dinosaur is an original Razor flip phone. It’s virtually indestructible, and I had a dream that it would save me some day from a stray bullet. So you can pry it from my cold dead fingertips.”
“I have no interest in taking your phone. If you want reading material, you can ask for any title from my library.”
“What about letting me proofread whatever you’re working on?” I asked. I knew he’d probably never let me see his work, just out of spite, but it was worth a shot. Still, I had some vague sense that of anybody in the world, I would be the last one he’d want to let see his work in progress. Why was that? My thoughts were returning to normal rapidly, but the answer to that question was still out of reach.
Sebastian went completely rigid at my question. “No,” he said sharply. “You can’t read what I’m working on. Dr. Willows will be by shortly.” He left the room in what seemed like a hurry and slammed the door.
Touchy, touchy.
But what was that feeling? Why had I felt so sure he wouldn’t want me to read his work? Oh, shit. It clicked.
I remembered the blog I’d been lovingly maintaining for the past four months, ever since my brother’s advice. I called it Sebastian St. Stank, and I wrote a bi-weekly roast of a random passage from his book. It was therapy, and I honestly hadn’t ever expected it to gain a viewership.
I still thought his book was the most brilliant thing I’d ever read, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t poke fun and pull things out of context. It had become like a brain puzzle. How could I take something great and twist it around until it seemed silly or pompous? But eventually, the blog had gained momentum and now had a couple thousand daily readers. It wasn’t massive by blog standards, but a not-so-insignificant chunk of people checked in every week to see me make fun of Sebastian and his book.
I silently thanked God that I’d stupidly registered the domain and put my name in as “Monster Milker,” which was inspired by a little light reading I’d been doing.