Most of us have done shit we wish we hadn’t when we’re under the influence. I know that, more than most. It doesn’t mean that she actuallywantstomake loveto me.
“Do you—doyouremember that night?”
I tilt my head. “Emma, this is one occasion when I wasn’t the drunk one. You were.”
Her chest flushes again. But when my eyes move up to her face, I see shame there. An emotion that should never touch her. She has nothing to be ashamed of. And I want to pull my tongue out that something I said made her feel that way.
“You could be drunk every day for a year and not come close to doing the ridiculous things I’ve done.”
She snorts, her mouth relaxing into a grin.
I spend way too much time saying outrageous things just because it makes her smile. To get her to react to me, like a kindergartner pulling a braid.
“This is true.” She’s back to her familiar sassy self.
“Like the time I fell off that fifth-floor balcony into the pool wearing Superman underwear, and the press got a shot of it. And still, to this day, I have no idea why I was wearing that.”
She laughs.
“I love that sound, princess.”
She watches me curiously. “What sound? And who are you calling princess?”
“I like to hear you laugh. And that’s totally a princess gown. Would you rather I call you ‘short stuff’?”
“I’m not short. You’re just oddly large.”
We bicker the rest of the way to the premiere. But we’re also both smiling.
CHAPTER 19
Emma
As we near the theater,our conversation dwindles until it’s just him and me, the closed, dark space, and silence.
It’s hard not to sneak glances at him. I wasn’t lying when I said Sebastian’s large. He’s not as large as Ronan Masters, his Viking action hero costar. Instead, he’s tall with lean muscles, born to wear a tuxedo.
It’s no wonder fashion brands pay a fortune to dress him for these events. He’s polished perfection in his classic tux, with his black hair falling just so over his forehead.
We really should have taken an SUV or a town car. The back of the Jag is too small.
I try to shift away, but even through the layers of fabric, I can feel his heat.
When the car slows to a stop in front of the theater, I make for the door, wanting fresh air and an escape from the nerves caused by my boss’s close presence.
“Don’t open it,” Sebastian commands.
My hand halts, and I turn to him in confusion, but he’s already slipped out ahead of his driver. I look through the back window and see him jogging around to my side, ignoring the row of paparazzi.
He opens my door, taking my arm to help me out.
I watch him with a perplexed frown. He’s not supposed to brave the cameras and fans for me, his assistant, as if I’m his date for the evening and he’s some old-fashioned courtier.
His actions are disconcerting. But I’ve never ridden to the premiere with him either. Usually, I take a separate car, meeting him there.
He puts a hand on my back, guiding me. Butterflies flitter underneath my skin, stopping to make a fuss at my chest, then making their way to my stomach and lower, before tingling down to my toes.
Flashes blind. People scream.
