"This is your room?" I ask stupidly.
"This is my room." He seems nervous, which is weird. Sebastian doesn't do nervous. "The theater room is through here."
He opens a connecting door to reveal a small private screening room. Plush couches, a projector screen, shelves of movies.
"Of course you have a private theater," I mutter.
"Family perk. I barely use it." He gestures to the couch. "Make yourself comfortable. I've got snacks, drinks, whatever you want."
I sink into the couch, it's absurdly comfortable, while Sebastian fusses with the projector and a mini fridge I hadn't noticed.
"I've got the classics queued up," he says, handing me a bottle of water and a bowl of popcorn. "Double Indemnity, The Maltese Falcon, Sunset Boulevard. Your choice."
"You actually found film noir?"
"You said you liked it. I pay attention." He sits next to me, not too close, but close enough that I'm aware of every inch of space between us. "So? What are we watching first?"
I choose The Maltese Falcon because it's my favorite. Because Humphrey Bogart's Sam Spade is complicated and flawed and somehow still heroic. Because the whole movie is about people lying to each other and themselves.
Feels appropriate.
Sebastian dims the lights and starts the film. The opening credits roll, and I try to focus on the screen instead of the fact that I'm alone in Sebastian Thornhill's private theater, sitting on his couch, about to spend the next several hours in forced proximity. Not thinking about what’s under the sweater at all.
This is fine. Totally fine.
Absolutely nothing to worry about.
The movie starts, and for a while, I actually relax. Get lost in the story. Almost forget where I am and who I'm with.
Then, about thirty minutes in, Sebastian speaks.
"Can I tell you something?"
My heart rate spikes. "What?"
"I've been working on something. Since the auction. Since you agreed to give me a chance." He pauses the movie. "And I want to show you. But I'm terrified you'll hate it."
"What is it?"
"Come here. To my room."
Every alarm bell in my head goes off. But something in his voice, vulnerability, hope makes me nod.
"Okay."
He leads me back through the connecting door to his bedroom. Goes to his desk and picks up that leather journal.
"I told you I wrote poetry," he says quietly. "About you. This is it. Two years worth. And I want you to read it."
He holds out the journal.
And I have to decide, do I trust him enough to look inside?
Chapter 8
Sebastian
The journal weighsnothing in my hands and everything at once.
