“Sure,”I nodded, hoping she didn’t catch sight of the obvious hard-on beginning tostrain against the zipper of my jeans.
Sheturned around to head back across the hall when she stopped. “By the way, Ican’t believe you actually put me across the hall from you.”
Calmdown, dick. “Why’s that?”
“Justseems very presumptuous of you,” she mocked. “Almost seems like you’re expectingsomething to happen.”
Fuckingrelax. “I guess it does almost seem that way.”
Sheglanced over her shoulder and if I wasn’t mistaken, I thought I detected justthe hint of a flicker burning in the center of those emerald eyes. But withoutanother word, she exited the room. I heard the door across the hall gentlyclose, and not caring if she heard, I released a primal, guttural groan.
Maybeshe was right. Maybe this was a terrible idea.
Ormaybe this is exactly what you both need.
15
tabby
Idon’t knowwhat I’d expected fromSebastian’s house. I guess, if I really thought about it, I’d pictured anembellished bachelor pad. Leather and leopard print everywhere. Maybe astripper pole or two. Beer on tap. Something I might’ve seen on MTV’sCribsback in the day.
Butthis? This was a modest home with a small gourmet kitchen and a mahogany dinnertable. High-backed dining chairs and tasteful, yet masculine, wall art. Thiswasn’t at all what I would’ve pictured. Not by a long shot.
Ididn’t imagine he’d decorated himself. On several occasions now, he hadmentioned a mother and sisters. As I cut a piece of steak, I wondered how muchthey’d helped to furnish his house, and I hated to admit, the thought wasendearing.
“How’sthe steak?” Sebastian asked, as I slowly chewed, watching him and trying sohard to figure him out.
“Verygood,” I complimented. “You cooked?”
“Mm,”he nodded, swallowing a bite of baked potato. “I almost always cook at home,unless I’m going out to eat with my family.”
Greyson’sface shadowed with disbelief. “Always?”
Chuckling,Sebastian bobbed his head. “Always. You gotta understand something, okay? WhenI’m on the road, it’s a pretty even split between home-cooked meals andgrabbing shit on the run. And that’s only been sinceIstarted cookingand Kylie joined us. Before that? It was all room service and fast food. I getso freakin’ sick of fried crap, it’s not even funny.”
Itmade sense, looking at him again and the definition of muscle cut along hisarms, flexing and shifting as he cut his steak. Nobody could look like that andsurvive off a diet of fast food and chain restaurants. But knowing he cookedmeals himself, and ones of this caliber, impressed me beyond reason.
Again,not what I expected.
“Tomorrow,Mom said she’d bring over a lasagna,” Sebastian informed us with the smallesthint of a smile.
“Yourmother?” I asked needlessly. Of course he was talking about his mother. Who elsewould he refer to asMom?
Nodding,he stabbed a piece of asparagus. “Yeah. I kinda told her about Greyson and she,uh, wants to meet him.” Awkwardly, he shoveled the asparagus into his mouth,diverting his eyes and clenching his fist around his fork.
Slidingmy eyes to Greyson, I detected just the slightest bit of apprehension on thesurface, clouding something that might’ve been excitement. He never did havemuch of a relationship with my parents—his grandparents. By the time he wasolder and could remember them, they were old, crabby, and in poor health. Knowinghe had another shot at having grandparents that might hold an interest in him wasa good thing. I hope he understood that.
“Isyour father alive?” I asked Sebastian, and he nodded.
“Ohyeah,” he replied with enthusiasm. “He’d come by tomorrow too, but one of theirsows just gave birth, so—”
“Sows?”Greyson asked, raising a brow.
“Yeah,”Sebastian laughed. “My parents are farmers. They have pigs and cows andchickens and all sorts of shit.”
Thisman and all his surprises. “You were raised on a farm?”
“Don’tlook so shocked, Thumbelina,” he chuckled. “I look fucking amazing in a pair ofoveralls.”
