“Wow. What’s this magical art-loving unicorn’s name?”
“Benjamin McFarlane the Third.”
Sebastian let out a low whistle. “The Third, huh? Sounds pompous. Never heard of him.”
I laughed. “Neither had I, until today. Apparently, he’s filthy rich, though not by any personal achievement.”
Sebastian smirked. “The third ones rarely are. Unless there’s a crown involved, numbering your kids feels like a surefire way to stunt their personalities. Like, ‘Here’s your name, your legacy, and your predetermined destiny—good luck breaking out of that.’”
I chewed thoughtfully. “Yeah, I had this guy named Junior in high school. Hated it so much, he legally changed it the second he turned twenty-one.”
“What’d he change it to?”
“Marilyn. The name wasn’t the only thing he changed.”
Sebastian grinned. “Well, it sure sounds better than Junior.”
“Definitely looked better, too. He used to say his father’s shadow crushed him from birth. And that it all started with not getting a name of his own.”
When we finished eating, I insisted on clearing the table, but Sebastian helped anyway. The meal had been perfect—flavorful,satisfying, just enough to hit every craving without leaving me in a food coma.
“I didn’t have time to make dessert,” Sebastian said, rinsing a plate and sliding it into the dishwasher. “But I can whip up some cream, and I’ve got fresh strawberries.”
Our eyes met.
Was it my imagination, or did that pause last just a second too long? Did he mean the whipped cream only for strawberries?
Because my brain was absolutely not keeping things innocent anymore.
Chapter Fourteen
Sebastian
She cleared her throat. “I’m good, thank you. But if you want to… whip cream for yourself, be my guest.”
Amusement tickled a corner of my mouth. “It’s no fun if I can’t share it.” I topped off our wine glasses. “Why don’t we enjoy these in the living room? Make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring them over.”
A minute later, I set the wine glasses on the coffee table.
Jesse looked so relaxed on my couch, her bare feet stretched out luxuriously. I’d noticed she’d left her flip-flops by the door—a thoughtful gesture that I appreciated. I usually had to ask people to take off their shoes, but not her. Her toenails were painted a bold, shiny red. Her feet looked pampered and smooth. I loved how she took care of herself, down to the smallest details. Sinatra’s smooth voice filled the background as the AC gently stirred the air around us.
I settled next to her, my gaze naturally drawn to her long, toned, sexy legs. She looked like she’d had a long day.
“This is nice,” she said, stretching out her toes.
“Happy to make you happy. You look like you could use a foot massage.”
She raised an eyebrow, and I could see the temptation in her eyes.
“No one has ever given me a foot massage—except for this one time when the girls forced me to go to a spa with them. It turns out that my feet are so ticklish, no one can touch them.”
A challenge. I loved challenges, especially when it came to Jesse. “I’ll bet you anything you want that I can give you a foot massage without you feeling tickly.”
Her eyes met mine with that competitive spark I’d grown to adore. “Ten bucks.”
“Deal.”
I helped her adjust as she settled her feet on my lap. The moment my fingers made contact with her skin, I felt her tense slightly—but then she began to relax under my touch. Hours of learning about pressure points and massage techniques were finally paying off.
