He’d seen about one inch of the seven-thousand-foot home, but that didn’t matter.
Not when I’d bought it seven years ago, thinking only of him standing in almost exactly that spot, bathed in sunlight, smiling at me.
For once in my life, I didn’t know what to say, all the words that needed to be spoken tangled in a mass at the back of my throat. So I just smoothed a hand through my sweaty hair and offered an anemic smile.
Sebastian nodded, as if that was an acceptable response. “It’s good to see you, Adam. The camera doesn’t do you justice. It never has.”
I blinked as shock rolled through me. “You still watch my films?”
Seb bit the edge of his grin and rocked back on his heels. “I never could resist watching you act. You do such a damn good job. I can pretend the man who broke my heart doesn’t even exist behind each character you play.”
For some reason, that struck me like a punch to the gut.
“Sebastian,” I said, but I didn't have anything tangible to follow it up with, and suddenly, I was tired again. So fucking tired. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “What are you doing here? How did you even get through the bloody gate?”
“Chaucer and I have stayed in touch,” he said easily.
Of course, they had. I’d never asked her, unable to bear the thought that we might only be one person removed. That if I was desperate enough, I could beg Chaucer to give me his number or tell me how to make things right.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” I said flatly.
Seb pursed then flattened his lips, and I was cruelly reminded how lovely his mouth was, pink and full against the inkiness of his stubble.
“Why don’t you offer me a drink? And you look like you could use some water,” he suggested, already moving through the house as if he were a frequent guest here.
Bemused, still struck faintly dumb by his presence in my home after so long, I trailed him. My eyes found his pert arse, flexing in that tailored denim, before I could find the will to wrench them away.
“Left,” I corrected when he made to move the other way.
“Ah,” he said, clapping his hands together when the kitchen came into view behind the long expanse of a comfortable living room. “My mama would embarrass herself over this kitchen.”
“My cook seems to enjoy it.”
Sebastian laughed, and it made my breath thin inside my lungs.
“You never were the chef, were you?” he asked, eyes sparkling as he opened the door to the fridge, peering over his shoulder at me.
I shrugged even though he’d turned back to rummage through the drink drawer. He was quiet as he perused the selection of non-alcoholic beverages and chose one for both of us. I waited as he slid the La Croix across the marble island toward me and watched as he cracked his own open, strong throat working around a sip.
Jesus Christ, what was he doing here?
This was both the worst and best thing that had happened to me in years.
Seeing him would always conjure remnants of the magic I’d felt during our year together in London, the calm and joy and passion he’d brought to my life.
But seeing him now, when I was in the middle of a media shitstorm, was absolutelynotwhat I needed.
His temptation was, and always had been, too strong. I’d resisted him once, but to do it again would take a herculean effort.
Not that he was here to…rekindle anything.
Surely.
My heart beat so hard against my breastbone I thought it might crack in half, the bloody organ falling to the table between us for him to toy with.
“Sebastian,” I said, a little too sharply. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He nodded slightly, studying the can of sparkling water like it held the answers. “I heard about the…scandal.”
