We’ve managed maybe a block of peaceful wandering before the first recognition hits.
“Oh my god,” the woman says, a phone already appearing in her hand like a magic trick. “You’re Sebastian Hall. From Hall of Fame.” The words come out slightly breathless, making her sound younger than she probably is. “Could I…? Would it be okay if…?”
“Of course,” Bastian says before she can finish the request, his smile transforming his face into the public persona I sometimes forget he maintains.
My hand slips from his as he steps toward her, giving them space for a selfie that will probably be on social media within minutes. More phones appear as the word spreads, each new fan handled with the same grace as the first.
When the fans are finally gone, he makes his way back to me with an apologetic smile that I wave away before he can voice it. “Don’t,” I tell him quietly as we resume walking toward the hotel. “Never apologize for making your fans happy.”
“Does it bother you?” he asks suddenly, sounding vulnerable. “The attention, the fans, the public side of things?”
The question makes me pause, and I consider my answer carefully.
“No,” I tell him in earnest. “How could it? It’s part of who you are, what you’ve built. Besides, I’m proud of you. Of everything you’ve accomplished, of how you treat your fans, of the way you balance both worlds.”
His kiss catches me slightly off guard, though I respond automatically to the gentle pressure of his lips against mine. The contact remains brief, conscious of the public setting, but it’s no less impactful.
“I want to go home,” he says when we break apart. “Hide out in my cabin for the rest of the day. Just us.”
“Yes.”
We walk the final blocks to the hotel holding hands, neither caring if anyone notices or photographs a simple gesture of affection. Because some things matter more than public opinion, like the way his thumb rubs softly against the back of my hand.
“I didn’t think this through,” he says, looking at both our vehicles and pouting. “Race you there?”
My answer comes as a quick kiss before heading toward my truck, with the certainty that whatever speed we travel, we’re both finally heading toward the same destination.
29
BASTIAN
Taylen’s “this isn’t a date”protest died quickly when I turned up at his doorstep with a bunch of flowers to take him out to the festival. One very hot make-out session later, and we walk our private path to the festival—perks of having it so close.
The way he leans into my touch when I rest my hand on his lower back suggests he’s not even trying very hard to maintain the pretense anymore.
“Hot cocoa?” I ask. His eyes light up despite the obvious attempt to maintain a neutral expression.
“If you insist,” he says with affected indifference that makes me want to laugh. “Though this still isn’t?—”
“A date,” I finish for him. “Just two friends enjoying the festival together. Completely platonic hot beverage sharing.”
My fingers find a sensitive spot just above his waistband, drawing a slight shiver that contradicts his attempted stoicism. “I thought you said you love me.”
“I lied,” he lies.
The vendor adds extra marshmallows to Taylen’s cup without being asked, the kind of small-town knowledge that makes my heart ache with the rightness of being here.
“Cinnamon?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
Taylen nods. The way his eyes close at the first sip makes my cock a little less comfortable in my jeans, especially since my boyfriend told me we weren’t allowed to come earlier. We had to save it for later.
“Stop watching me drink,” he mutters, color rising in his cheeks. “It’s weird.” But he doesn’t move away when I step closer, using the crowd as an excuse to press against his side.
“Can’t help it,” I tell him honestly. “You make everything look sexual.”
The words draw a fresh blush to his face.
“Keep it in your pants,” he says.
