And now, he’slickedme. And brought up practicing more.
Sadie would suggest, with a wicked leer, that we’re slip sliding into the territory of friends with benefits. She’d say it doesn’t have to be deep.
I smile, feeling the sun on my cheeks and the wind in my hair. I’m going to lean into whatever this is and just…feel.
There will be plenty of time to worry about the rest later.
“Holy shit.I thought I knew what rich was. But this is beyond,” I whisper in awe, looking around the great room that a butler ushered us into.
A butler, for freak’s sake.
I’ve been around movie stars for the last seven years, so I’m used to people with money and the way they live. Sebastian’s historic estate, for example, is worth tens of millions.
But this is something else entirely.
It’s as if we’ve stepped back in time, into a European noble’s house. House, I mentally scoff. Ha.
Even the words château or mansion don’t do it justice.
It’s all rich mahogany and vaulted ceilings that go on forever, and the largest, most dramatic staircase leading up to a landing that circles the ground floor, as if we at the bottom are actors on a stage and people could lean on the balcony from above, watching the action. Light from floor-to-ceiling stained-glass windows splashes the walls in brilliant hues and patterns.
It’s dark and lush and opulent. The drama of it seems over the top and makes me even more nervous about meeting the famed director.
“Sebastian!”
An attractive older couple approaches us. The large, slightly rounded man I recognize as Dario Mancini greets my former boss, engulfing him in a hug. While the director looks pleased to see him, Sebastian’s face is tight, his eyes flat.
I turn to the smiling woman at his side, who I suspect is the director’s wife. Her olive skin is tanned, and she exudes health, energy, and graceful aging that’s almost never seen in LA, whereage is something to be fought against with every dollar one has. She’s wearing a peacock-blue blouse that drapes over her trim figure and pressed white jeans. Her silver curls tumble over her shoulders and down her back. Even casual, she looks wealthy, in that understated way that only the very rich can be.
But her smile is warm.
“My sweet boy is all grown up,” the woman says and embraces Sebastian in another hug. At first, he looks taken aback, and then he closes his eyes and returns her embrace tentatively. She pulls away, takes the sides of his head in her hands, and gazes at him for a long moment. “We’ve missed you. It’s beenyears. Why haven’t you returned our calls?” she asks, narrowing her gaze.
For a minute, I see something stark in Sebastian’s eyes, and then they shutter. “It’s been busy…” He turns to me.
Mrs. Mancini must interpret his look differently because her expression lightens. “Youhavebeen busy. You’re engaged now! We thought this day would never happen. We’re so happy for you both.”
“Meet Emma Reynolds, my… fiancée,” Sebastian says. His voice catches on the word. If we were in private, I’d kick him because for a famous actor, he’s really not very good at this.
Luckily, she doesn’t notice the awkwardness.
“Emma, welcome to our home, dear. I’msoglad you’re here. I can’t wait to get to know you better.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Mancini. I’m looking forward to that also.”
“Please. Call me Maricella. And congratulations on your engagement.”
Sebastian turns toward us and slings an arm around me. My whole side lights up in reaction. He leans down, and my breath catches. I feel a kiss in my hair, soft as a breeze. His lips linger, while I tremble in tingling awareness of his body. And he touches my hand briefly, brushing the ring, as if assuringhimself it’s there. I have an overwhelming urge to turn into him, to memorize his every sinew and muscle. For just a second, I let my eyes close, savoring the warmth from being enveloped in his firm embrace.
And then he steps back, and I’m left with cold air at my side.
I blink, struggling to regain my equilibrium.
“Yes, congratulations to the two of you,” Mr. Mancini says. “And welcome, Emma.” He greets me with a kiss on each cheek. His skin is papery. I’d place his age around seventy. His eyes twinkle under thick black eyebrows, and his hair is a shock of white, stylishly cut. His clothes scream casual luxury, like his wife’s.
“I’m so glad you could come and spend some time together. The boys can talk,” she says, slipping her arm through mine, “and we can get to know each other. I understand you just had a scary fall. Sebastian explained it. You’ll be able to take a delightful break here.”
“I’m fine. I’m feeling better by the hour. Sebastian is worrying for nothing.” That part is at least true. Despite a little lingering fatigue, I’ve felt good all day, and my headache is almost completely gone.
