I swallowed hard, my eyes snapping to his. This wasn’t teasing. This wasn’t vague flirtation or accidental chemistry. His intention was unmistakable.
And it terrified me.
The air between us crackled, thick with everything unspoken. Guilt pricked at me—faint but present. But he’d said it himself: Candi wasn’t it. He wasn’t walking away from something real. He was stepping toward it.
Still, I couldn’t handle it. Not the weight of his gaze, not the pounding of my own heart, not the raw truth of what I was starting to want.
“I just remembered something,” I blurted. “I’ll come back for my stuff later.”
I turned and offered Mr. Yamaguchi a too-bright smile. “Goodnight!”
But the path to the door went right past Sebastian. And as I slipped by, he leaned in—so close I felt his breath against mycheek—and whispered in a low voice that sent a shiver down my spine.
“You can run, but you can’t hide. You and I are not done.”
Chapter Twelve
Jesse
I shut and locked the apartment door, then leaned back against it, heart thudding.
Holy crap. Holy shit.
What. Was. That?
My head thumped against the wood with a dull thud, as if impact could somehow knock the memory out of me. No luck. That kiss was branded into my brain—and several other places that were now very awake and very needy.
Now I understood the reason behind the revolving door of women. Sebastian Wright was a walking, talking, maddeningly sexy hazard. He was dynamite. Searing hot.
He’d nearly given me an orgasm with just a kiss. If we ever had sex, I’d probably have a stroke or a heart attack. But my God, I would die happy.
I licked my lips, tasting him. Liquid heat throbbed in places where my pulse didn’t usually throb. That kiss had been exquisite, like artwork. I’d never had such a perfect kiss in my entire life.
Some guys kissed too wet, like they were trying to do CPR. Others were hesitant, as though your mouth was going to file a complaint. And then there were the over-eager ones, who mistook enthusiasm for rhythm. Sebastian kissed like we’d done this in a hundred lifetimes and finally found our way back.
It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a collision of timing, of chemistry. Our mouths found the perfect rhythm the second they touched.
I closed my eyes and let the memory crash over me. My fingers curled into the wood behind me, nails digging in, wishing it was his skin. I didn’t know what the hell my heart was doing—somewhere between panic and freefall—but my body was screaming his name in full surround sound.
My mind wandered to Savanna’s bag of silicone saviors. I snorted. The toy that could replace Sebastian Wright hadn’t been invented yet. And if it had, it would probably be illegal in several states.
With a groan, I pushed off the door and dragged myself to the bathroom. Cold water was the only answer. I twisted the knob and let the icy stream blast from the shower head. I had a big meeting tomorrow with Ben McFarlane, and if I wasn’t sharp, I could lose everything. There was a lot at stake here, and I couldn’t afford a distraction. Sebastian was a distraction. He was sexy, there was no doubt about that. Maybe there was more to him than a hot body. Maybe something worth exploring one day. But not tonight.
I moaned as I peeled off my clothes, everything still too hot and too aware of where his hands had almost gone. Then I stepped under the freezing spray and let the cold do its job—numbing the fire he’d lit with just one perfect, devastating kiss.
* * *
The next morning, getting ready took longer than usual. I lingered over my makeup, trying out two different eyeliners before finally settling on the one that made my eyes look less sleep-deprived. Today was huge. I needed to look like someone worth betting on.
I pulled out one of Ange’s signature combos—black jeans and crisp white button-up. I paired it with the necklace Nikki had given me for my birthday last year—three black cords that held a heavy metal pendant carved with an Aztec symbol. I had no idea what it meant, but it looked classy.
The morning air was still cool as I headed toward Battery Park, my canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Tucked inside was one of my best portfolios—carefully curated, lovingly printed on matte archival paper. There were glossy shots of my newer sculptures, a few crowd-pleasers from the last online event, and even a couple of gems from my university days—the post-Alex era. One photo showed a clay vase brushed with a golden shimmer, another captured a graffiti-style piece inspired by Audrey Hepburn’s portrait, reimagined with a modern edge and a riot of color.
I’d lived in New York my entire life, yet this would be my first time aboard the Staten Island Ferry. As the orange ship made its way across the harbor, I gazed out at the stunning views of the Manhattan skyline and the Statue of Liberty. I couldn’t help the flutter of excitement in my chest at the possibility of getting this job.
When I arrived at the Staten Island Terminal, I headed to the address Ben had given me. It was a sprawling, two-story brick-and-stone house set back from the street, surrounded by lush greenery. I gasped. If I did get this job, I was looking at months of work. I couldn’t wait!
I rang the doorbell. Within a minute, a man greeted me with a smile.
