I blame the wine.
"I'm not sure this is going to work," I admit as he pays the bill despite my protests of me paying for mine. "My family is pretty perceptive."
"It'll work." His confidence is irritating and comforting in equal measure. "I'm excellent at reading rooms, and you're stubborn enough to pull anything off if you set your mind to it."
"Was that a compliment or an insult?"
"Definitely a compliment." He stands, offering me his hand. "Ready?"
I hesitate, then place my hand in his. It's warm and solid, and his fingers curl around mine with easy familiarity.
As we walk out, my hand still in his, I can't help thinking that, for a fake boyfriend, it feels dangerously real.
The night air instantly cools my heated skin as we step outside the restaurant. Sebastian drops my hand as soon as we hit the pavement, since there are no more witnesses, and I shiver slightly pulling my coat tighter around myself. Instead of putting distance between us, Sebastian’s hand now guides me toward the parking lot with gentle pressure at the small of my back. The pressure of his palm sends a surge of energy through me even through my thick coat.
"Where are you parked?" he asks, scanning the lot.
"Back corner—the silver Audi," I reply, keeping my tone even, even though my brain is still ricocheting from the way he’s standing so damn close. The woodsy bite of his cologne threatens to unravel me, but I force my expression into neutrality and fall into step beside him, matching his steady pace toward my car.
For a few steps, we walk in a silence that seems comfortable for him but it’s barely-contained chaos for me. Our footfalls sync on the pavement as the soft yellow glow from the vintage-style lamps stretches our shadows long across the asphalt.
Then my composure slips. My brain finally catches up with what’s actually happening, and I stop dead in my tracks. I whirl around. Straight into his chest. My hands fly up instinctively, hovering just inches from the soft fabric of his coat.
"Oh my god. I didn't even think about travel accommodations." My hand smacks my forehead and I rub my skin, trying to think. "It's a fourteen-plus hour drive to Aspen, but buying a plane ticket on three day's notice and this close to the holidays is going to cost a fortune."
His eyebrows lift as I continue spiraling, his gaze tracking my increasingly frantic gestures with amusement.
"I can't ask you to drive that far, and buying a last-minute flight? We're talking at least a thousand dollars." I shake my head frantically, my thoughts racing ahead to all the logistical nightmares. "This whole damn thing is a terrible idea. We're not going. Emily can just give my ticket to a friend or something."
"Charlie." He places his hands on my shoulders, steadying me with a gentle but firm grip that instantly halts my verbal landslide. "Take a breath."
I inhale sharply, trying to calm the panic rising in my chest. The cool air fills my lungs, and I'm mortified to realize I've been practically hyperventilating in front of him.
"The flight isn't an issue," he says, his voice level and assured, a stark contrast to my wild rambling. "I can buy a ticket anytime I want. Money isn't a problem."
I blink at him, processing this information against the backdrop of his annoyingly calm expression. "But—"
"Actually, I'll probably upgrade to first class." His thumbs make small, soothing circles on my shoulders, a gesture so distracting I almost miss what he's saying. "I always do."
The tension in my body eases slightly at his calm demeanor, though my mind still races with a million practical concerns. "Are you sure? Because—"
"I'm positive." A smile tugs at his lips, creating that damn dimple I've come to enjoy seeing. "If I'm being honest, the only reason I really like first class is because I can sit in those fancy airport lounges and people-watch. It's fascinating really, all those stressed executives trying to look important while they stuff free cookies in their briefcases."
Even though I’m spiraling, I laugh, the sound bursting out unexpectedly. "You do not people-watch in airport lounges."
"I absolutely do." His grin widens, making the dimple even more pronounced. "Last time I was in Chicago, I watched this guy try to sneak an entire cheese platter into his carry-on. The staff just pretended not to notice. He had these tiny cocktail napkins he was using as wrapping paper. Very committed to the heist."
The knot in my chest loosens. "Okay… if you're sure"
"I'm sure." He drops his hands from my shoulders, and I feel their absence immediately. "The only travel issue you need to worry about is whether I should pack my ugly Christmas sweater now or buy one when we get there. I'm thinking something with a 3D reindeer nose that lights up."
We both laugh and he starts walking again. I fall into step beside him. His stride is longer than mine, but he seems to have adjusted and slowed down without even thinking about it. For the first time, I wonder about his financial situation. If dropping at least a grand on a last-minute first-class ticket isn'ta concern, he must be doing well. But then again, I remind myself, he was a professional athlete before his marketing career. Sponsorships, endorsements, that world operates on a different financial plane than my comfortable but decidedly middle-class existence.
Even with this realization it doesn't change anything about how I see him. Money has never been a factor in who I choose to spend time with, and his casual attitude about it, treating it as a practical matter rather than something to flaunt, only reinforces that he's not trying to impress me with his wealth. He mentioned it only to ease my concerns, not to showcase his status.
We reach my car and as I unlock it, he steps forward to open the driver's side door for me. The gesture is small and thoughtful.
"Thank you for dinner," I say, feeling suddenly awkward, fiddling with my keys. "And for... all of this. Agreeing to the trip."
