Page 52 of Hate To Be Mine

“Everyone gets puffy when they stress-eat sugar.” She was already pulling out ingredients. “I’m making you another wrap. Lettuce, turkey, and nothing fun.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m keeping you employed.” She started assembling the wrap. “Your face is your fortune, pretty boy. Don’t forget it.”

I slumped in my chair, watching her work. Elizabeth was still eating her grilled cheese, looking far too amused by my misery.

“You know what I’m excited about?” she said, clearly changing the subject to give me a break. “When this campaign finally hits the market. I’ve been working on this collection forever. Granted, most of it was nothing but images in my head, but still seeing it come to life like this—it’s everything I dreamed of.”

“It’s going to be huge,” I said, grateful for the distraction. “The designs are incredible.”

“I want to see them in stores. On billboards. On real women who aren’t just models.” Her eyes lit up the way they always did when she talked about her work. “I want to walk down the street and see someone wearing one of my dresses and feel like I made something that matters. Something that makes people feel beautiful.”

“You already do that,” I said. “Your last collection was a hit.”

“Thanks, Sebastian.” She smiled at me. I realized I really liked having a sister. “This whole shoot and everything you’re doing—it means the world to me. I know it’s been stressful, but you’re making my vision real. You’re giving these clothes the showcase they deserve.”

Cookie slid a plate in front of me with the world’s most boring lettuce wrap. No sauce. No cheese. Just lettuce, turkey, and disappointment.

“Eat,” she commanded.

I picked it up and took a bite. It tasted like sadness wrapped in leaves. I felt like I should have floppy ears and giant front teeth like the rabbit Cookie thought I was. Elizabeth was still talking about the campaign and her plans for the next collection.

And despite the terrible wrap and my complicated feelings about Bernadette and the pressure of not screwing everything up, I felt something settle in my chest.

Pride.

It was working. We were making something good. Something Elizabeth had poured her heart into and I was going to be the guy that made it pop. If I could impress Adrian’s wife, that had to win me some brownie points with my grumpy brother.

I just needed to stop running from the redhead who made my pulse race and my brain short-circuit.

Tonight. I’d talk to her tonight.

Assuming I didn’t lose my nerve and hide in my bungalow.

By the time evening rolled around, I’d worked myself into a state of controlled anxiety. I needed those taro chips from the resort lobby. Not because I was stress eating—definitely not that—but because they were delicious and I’d earned a snack after a long day of very professional work.

I left my bungalow and headed toward the main building. I still needed to talk to Bernadette, but I couldn’t quite find the right words. I knew I should say something casual. An acknowledgment of what happened without making it weird.

I was so lost in my mental script that I almost walked directly into her.

She was coming out of the lobby just as I was approaching. We both stopped short. For a second, we just stared at each other.

“Sorry,” I grunted, moving right to walk around her.

She moved right too.

I shifted left. So did she.

We did an awkward dance for a few seconds, and something in me snapped. This was ridiculous. We were adults. We’d kissed. Now we needed to deal with it instead of playing bumper cars in front of the resort lobby.

I grabbed her shoulders and forced her to stay put. I looked directly into her eyes.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “Can we just talk like adults?”

Her eyes widened slightly. I could feel the tension in her shoulders under my hands. For a moment, I thought she might pull away. She was going to be the one to flee, and honestly, that would be great. It would save me an awkward conversation and we would be even on the running-away thing.

Then she nodded. “Yes.”