I told myself to stay put. To be cool. To not care.
He could do whatever—or whoever—he wanted. That was always the deal.
Keep it simple. No strings. No what-ifs.
And this was exactly why. Because feelings were debilitating. I should’ve trusted myself, trusted that I knew better. I knew myself best. Should’ve stuck to that and never doubted it. Time to put it back the way it was.
But my stomach twisted again anyway, a sick mix of nerves and heat, like standing too close to a fire.
I wiped my damp palms on my shorts, pacing the cottage like that might burn off the restless energy coiling through me.
The slam of a car door.
My hearing became so attuned that I could pick up every sound in the distance. It didn’t help that the inn was nearly empty and that evenings here were always so still.
A few moments later, I heard his footsteps and the door of cabin four closing.
I froze.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I yanked my door open and stepped outside, my heart hammering as if I had just finished a marathon.
I knocked.
Sebastian opened the door and stood there, looking like an Everest I’d have to conquer. That calm, sure, warm smile—the same one that had gutted me across that café table—spread across his face.
“Hey,” we both said at once.
He stepped back inside, leaving the door open in invitation. I followed, closing it softly behind me.
“How was Armstrong?” My voice sounded normal. Too normal.
“Good,” he said. “Meeting ran long, but—”
But I didn’t hear the rest.
All I saw was her hand on his forearm, that easy laugh she’d given him.
Before I knew what I was doing, my feet were moving.
Two strides. Three.
My brain was a blur when I crashed into him—his heat, his scent, the solid strength of his chest and arms—everything familiar, everything that was Sebastian. My mouth found his mid-sentence. His taste, his breath, everything that shouldn’t feel like mine but did.Not yours,my brain screamed, trying to reason. But my heart, my stupid fucking heart, ached in an unfamiliar way that tore through me.
My fingers fisted his shirt—the buttoned-up shirt he’d worn on his coffee date. The one whose cuffed sleeves allowedherto lay her hand on his exposed, veined forearm.
All I wanted was to rip that fabric off him. I was going to.
I yanked him closer like he was the only air left for me to breathe. My other hand gripped his nape to anchor myself further to him, my nails digging into his skin, like I needed to leave my mark on him.
Because this wasn’t justwantanymore. It wasneed, a terrifying, raw need.
And this was the only way I knew to stop it.
Demolish.
30
Sebastian
