I stare straight ahead. “That bar is fine. At least I already know they make a good Manhattan.”
Sebastien makes a small noise in the back of his throat, continuing to drive until we reach the parking lot. He kills the engine, the pink neon flickering on the window of his car just like it would’ve the night we met if we’d driven here together instead of finding each other for one moment in time.
We go in together. The bar is half full, a melancholy song playing from the jukebox. I see a row of men in work boots at the bar. A group of women crowded around a booth. Plenty of tables for one that fit this place, with it’s atmosphere of smoke and grit and cheap booze.
It’s definitely not the King’s Court.
After tucking me in one of the booths, Sebastien goes to the bar. He comes back with a beer for himself, a chilled whiskey glass that must be my Manhattan. He sets them both down before sliding into the booth.
Not across from me.Nextto me.
Shifting so that he’s looking at me, he watches me for a long moment, then says, “This doesn’t seem like your scene. I thought so the night we met. I haven’t changed my mind yet.”
Not my scene? Well, maybe he’s right, but of the two of us, I’m not the Order golden boy covering up his privilege with a leather jacket and a daring smirk. In fact, I want to show him so badly that thiscouldbe my type of place—and maybe itmight’ve been if I met Sebastien before Eric—that I don’t grab my Manhattan.
I take his beer, holding the neck of the bottle between two fingers before lifting it to my lips and taking a sip.
He laughs. It’s a soft, amused sort of chuckle as he reaches for my glass, downing half my Manhattan in a gulp.
My eyes widen. Okay. Just because they didn’t serve it in a cocktail glass doesn’t mean you treat it like a shot, but… damn, that wassexy.
You know what’s even sexier? When he eases the beer from my hold, taking it firmly in his grip, swiping his tongue over the rim where my lips had just been before tipping the bottle back, drinking that, too.
He lets the bottle settle on the tabletop with aclink.“Know what? I think I might like your drink better than that cheap shit they serve her.”
I push the half-filled glass of whiskey, bitters, and vermouth toward Sebastien. Then, with his eyes on my, I dart out my tongue, tasting him on the battle. Not the beer. Justhim.“It’s not that bad.”
His eyes gleam in the dim light, and I find myself admitting the truth: “This isn’t really my scene. Actually, it’s only the second time I’ve been here.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Both times with me?”
I nod.
I think he likes that. I’m glad, too, until he asks me the one question I can’t bring myself to answer: “So what were you doing here the first time? When we…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’thaveto.
What was I doing?
“Trying to prove something to myself,” I say, then I sigh. “I think I’m doing the same thing tonight.”
“And what’s that?”
“I’m not sure.”
I dare a peek over at him. His face calls me a liar, but he lets me have it—just like he lets me have his beerandhis company.
THIRTEEN
BETSY
SEBASTIEN
Ishouldn’t go back to her apartment.
I should’ve just dropped her off after our one drink together like a normal guy, not a fucking stalker, then go home. I should sleep in my own bed like someone who isn’t slowly losing his mind over a woman who still holds herself like she’s made of brittle glass, and I’m the one who might finally shatter her completely.
Then again, I’m Sebastien Reynolds. I’ve never claimed to be normal. I’m no good guy, either. And if this is stalking… well, I guess I’m a goddamn stalker because I’m sitting in the parking lot, my bike straddled between my legs, watching her bedroom light go off in the window over my head.
