I wasn’t sure when raw chicken became foreplay, but the moment Sebastian’s hands started gliding over that meat, it officially crossed the line. His forearms flexed with each motion,veins dancing their own choreography, and his fingers worked with a kind of reverence usually reserved for holy artifacts, or lovers.
Watching a man confidently own a kitchen did things to me. Unspeakable things. A different kind of hunger stirred low in my belly, tempting me to drop to my knees and offer thanks where thanks were due. This wasn’t just dinner. This was seduction.
While the chicken soaked in its fragrant oil spa and the potatoes baked in the oven, Sebastian invited me to look around. I gladly took the excuse to walk off the sheer lust fogging my brain.
The apartment was so perfectly him—retro with purpose, masculine without trying too hard. I found myself grinning at the collection of vinyl records, running my fingers over the spines until I spotted a mint-condition Frank Sinatra. I couldn’t help it. I slid it onto the turntable, dropped the needle, and let Old Blue Eyes croon us into timeless charm.
I passed by his bedroom. The lights were new, soft pod fixtures that cast a warm glow across the massive bed and wooden headboard. I lingered in the doorway just long enough to imagine that bed’s many potential uses, then forced myself to move on.
The apartment came with a generous dressing room, which Sebastian had turned into a compact little office. More books lined the walls, and a sleek gaming chair throned at the center of command.
I spotted one of my paintings on the wall opposite the desk—an autumn scene done in oil. It was one of the few paintings I’d done in an impressionist style. Close up, it looked like a sea of random colorful spots, but from a distance it became a dark, deserted alley and a couple walking close together in the rain. The man was holding a yellow umbrella, angled protectively over the woman.
I smiled, remembering the painting. It was among the first pieces I’d sold when I’d started my website. I’d always wondered who’d bought it. Back then, I didn’t know Sebastian, and seeing his name on an invoice wouldn’t have meant anything. Now I knew the painting had reached Mr. Wright.
“Do you have a preference for salad dressing?”
Sebastian’s voice broke the spell. I blinked and called back, “Nope, surprise me.”
I wandered back into the kitchen just in time to see him tearing romaine leaves into a bowl.
I took another sip of wine and leaned against the doorframe. “Look at you, Chef Sebastian. You’d make a good husband for a lucky wifey.”
It was meant to be a harmless tease, but something shifted in his expression. His smile dimmed, and for a second, his hands stilled.
“I don’t know if I’ll try that again,” he said softly.
I blinked. “Again? Are you telling me you’ve been married?”
He shook his head. “No. But I was almost engaged.”
The words hung in the air, as surprising as they were sobering.
Wow. Sebastian had been engaged? To be married? I couldn’t wrap my head around that notion.
“So… why aren’t you married?”
A muscle tightened in his cheek. I wanted to punch myself in the head. How could I be so tactless? I always said the wrong thing, which made me look insensitive instead of the socially awkward idiot that I was.
“Because she said no,” Sebastian replied, not looking at me. “In front of about fifty people.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Mental slap. And another one for Sebastian’s ex. How could she do that? Why would she say no to a man like Sebastian? In public!
Sebastian shrugged, chopping parsley. “It was for the best. We were both too young for marriage. She realized it first. I’m grateful now that we didn’t go through with it. It would’ve ended badly.”
I didn’t dare ask any more questions, but Sebastian sensed my curiosity. Either that, or he felt the need to tell me more.
“We were both at MIT.” He sprinkled parsley over the lettuce and reached for a red bell pepper. “After a couple months of dating, her parents decided I wasn’t good enough. My sister, Janine, hated her too. She said Lara was reckless, that she’d pull me off course.”
“Was she right?” I asked softly.
“Yeah.” He smiled lopsidedly. “Jan was right. Lara was an adrenaline junkie—motorcycles, booze, skydiving, ecstasy, you name it. She wanted to burn bright and fast. And I... I guess I was drawn to the fire.”
His voice was calm, but there was weight beneath the words—a gravity that had nothing to do with physics.
I didn’t push for more. I just stood there, wine glass in hand, staring at this man who made software that measured drought and who once fell for a storm.
He picked up his story with a soft, self-deprecating sigh. “Her parents threatened to cut her off if she didn’t dump me, and I was constantly fighting with Jan about it. So, in a moment of pure genius, I decided the best way to hold it all together was to propose. I bought a cheap ring, took her to this cozy little restaurant, got down on one knee, like an idiot from a rom-com.”
