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My hands and feet felt numb. I couldn’t believe he did it. Seb texted, and he wanted to see me again. I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. Everything about Seb was a terrible idea. Getting more involved would only make it worse for my mental well-being when the inevitable happened and everything went sideways. Yet a tiny, traitorous part of my brain, the part that hoped that against all odds we could end up together for real, did a victory dance.
That itty-bitty part of my brain hip-checked common sense aside, and made the idiotic decision to jump without a net. I typed a response before I wimped out.
Me: No, why?
I drummed my fingers on the desk and waited for a reply.
Seb: Pick u up @ 7?
My out of control, horny, hormonal half lit up. It knew precisely what Seb had in mind. My romantic, foolishly hopeful half, well, it wilted under the crushing weight of disappointment.
I knew better than to expect romance from a man like Sebastien St. Clair. To call him emotionally stunted would be a compliment. He couldn’t find romance if he had two extra hands and six sets of eyes.
Sex, Kylie. It's just sex.
My fingers flew across the tiny screen.
Me: I know where you live. I’ll come to you
The long pause made me smile. I pictured the frustrated look on Seb’s face as he wrestled between the desire to control everything by insisting he pick me up, and pure logic that said I was perfectly capable of making the fifteen-minute drive to the W. Those three bubbles popped up and stayed there for way too long, taunting me, until finally the swish of an incoming text broke the silence.
Seb: Fine. Code for garage 3637# Park in spot 28
I imagined his disgruntled expression and laughed out loud. A few of my colleagues popped up from neighboring cubicles like prairie dogs to shoot me questioning looks.
Me: C U then.
I planned to call Nat when I got home. Hopefully, my best friend would hammer some freaking common sense into my thick skull. Historically speaking, my judgment when it came to men was questionable at best. I needed Nat to stop me from thinking of Seb as relationship material. He wasn't, and even if he was, Rocco was a very obvious, tatted and muscled six-foot-six barrier to any happiness I might find with Seb. No doubt she would call me a bonehead. Nat would keep my expectations reasonable. Wrestle them down to the level they belonged when it came to a future with Seb… subterranean.
Still, that stupid little voice in the dark recesses of my mind persisted. Had me thinking—no, had me fantasizing—that someday Seb and I could actually be a couple. That we would fall madly in love, Rocco would wake up one day, get over himself and his annoying—if somewhat justified—hatred of Seb, and the two of us would have his blessing to make adorable little hockey babies and live happily ever after.
I sighed and thumped my head on my desk.
Like I said, stupid.
Seb
Of course I was irked that Kylie insisted on driving. Her being one hundred percent correct didn’t make me feel any better. It absolutely made more sense for her to come to me, instead of me going to her only to turn around and drive right back to the W. Logical or not, it aggravated me, but it wasn't worth arguing over, especially since I had big plans for Kylie. Specifically, my cock getting to know her pussy a lot better. And maybe I wanted to know a little more about Kylie as well.
After making a few calls and grabbing a quick shower, I glanced at the clock and frowned. I started getting ready way too early and was faced with an excessive amount of time on my hands and nothing interesting to occupy my bouncy-ball brain. Over the years, I came to discover bad things happened when I had loads of free time.
I stood next to the windows and watched it rain. The wind blew fiercely and people darted around, covering their heads with their
jackets or papers, or whatever they could find. In the more entertaining instances, they had umbrellas, which ultimately turned inside out, to my great delight.
I stepped away from the windows, and the second I did, unhelpful thoughts whirled around inside my head like an F-5 tornado.
There were too many questions and not enough answers. Why did Kylie stop coming to Comets games? Why was she there to begin with? Were those her seats or did she borrow tickets from a friend? And the one that bothered me most, that dangled like a carrot in front of the spinning hamster wheel in my skull every minute of every day… Why was Kylie so eager to get the fuck out of dodge forever ago?
Forever ago?
I pinched the bridge of my nose. It had only been two weeks, yet it felt like I hadn’t seen her in months and that was fucking scary.
Unbeknownst to me, I have deeply buried masochistic tendencies. It had to be, because I spent the next hour and a half agonizing over those questions, chucking handfuls of spaghetti at the wall to see what stuck and what ended up in a cold heap on the floor.
Pointless.
If I wanted the truth I had to suck it up and go to the source for answers, hence, me asking Kylie to come over.
