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“What about letting me proofread whatever you’re working on?” I asked. I knew he’d probably never let me see his work, just out of spite, but it was worth a shot. Still, I had some vague sense that of anybody in the world, I would be the last one he’d want to let see his work in progress. Why was that? My thoughts were returning to normal rapidly, but the answer to that question was still out of reach.
Sebastian went completely rigid at my question. “No,” he said sharply. “You can’t read what I’m working on. Dr. Willows will be by shortly.” He left the room in what seemed like a hurry and slammed the door.
Touchy, touchy.
But what was that feeling? Why had I felt so sure he wouldn’t want me to read his work? Oh, shit. It clicked.
I remembered the blog I’d been lovingly maintaining for the past four months, ever since my brother’s advice. I called it Sebastian St. Stank, and I wrote a bi-weekly roast of a random passage from his book. It was therapy, and I honestly hadn’t ever expected it to gain a viewership.
I still thought his book was the most brilliant thing I’d ever read, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t poke fun and pull things out of context. It had become like a brain puzzle. How could I take something great and twist it around until it seemed silly or pompous? But eventually, the blog had gained momentum and now had a couple thousand daily readers. It wasn’t massive by blog standards, but a not-so-insignificant chunk of people checked in every week to see me make fun of Sebastian and his book.
I silently thanked God that I’d stupidly registered the domain and put my name in as “Monster Milker,” which was inspired by a little light reading I’d been doing.
I sank back into the bed, unable to help but laugh a little. What a freaking mess. Like a lot of things in my life, I thought I could trace back all my problems to my brother and his stupid advice. What kind of person advises a girl in a fragile emotional state to do everything she can to loathe a man she’s fostering an unhealthy obsession with? How was that ever going to turn out well?
I sighed. All I had to do was make sure he never found out I was the infamous Monster Milker. And if he didn’t know about the blog, I just had to make sure he never found it. And stop posting new content. Oh, and I needed to make sure he didn’t find out I was carrying his baby, at least for now.
I wanted to do about a hundred other things, one of which was calling Trinity and telling her about the insane mess I’d gotten myself into. But I rolled to my side and put my hands to my stomach, trying to picture the tiny life growing there.
A few minutes ago, I’d felt almost repulsed by the idea. Now, thinking about the baby—my baby—spread a comforting sort of warmth through me. Damn you, biological inclinations.
It would be exciting if it wasn’t for the one obnoxiously handsome, grumpy catch. Sebastian St. James was the father, and I had no idea what I was going to do about it.
7
Sebastian
I stared at the word document on my computer. The page was blank except for the single vertical bar impatiently blinking, just waiting for the genius to pour out of me.
I ran my hand across the stubble on my face and let out a sigh. Four months. Four fucking months since my book had launched and the world had anointed me as God’s gift to literature. Four months since I’d gone from having a modest amount of money from spending my twenties climbing the corporate world to now having so much income that I needed a team of people to manage it.
Five years ago I’d given up my hopes of becoming a CEO when I realized it was an empty dream. Walking away was one of the best decisions I’d ever made. I’d walked away from my toxic ex, Patricia, most of my friends, and left everything behind. Of course, that was a simplification. The reality had been messy, confusing, and a shitshow that I still bore mental scars from.
But it was a fresh start, and it was in that clear minded peace afterwards that Ember found its way onto the pages. I’d felt reborn. Full of energy and ideas. Most importantly, I’d felt absolutely carefree. I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of my work, and I didn’t have any delusions of success or grandeur. I was just writing to get the words out of me. Opening a release valve to vent the build up of pressure.
But that all changed.
