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I shove his shoulder. “I was skating with kids. Of course I went slow! I left the skate racing to the guys who do that for a living. Sometimes knowing how to graciously hang out in the wings is a strength, Gauthier.”
A soft smile tugs at his mouth. Finally he glances my way. “Fair enough.”
A beat of silence hangs between us. That small smile fades as Sebastian peers down at my clothes in his hands. “Ziggy, I just…want you to know you really can back out whenever. I feel like an ass, that I didn’t consider this when I agreed to our publicity scheme, that this is how it goes for me. Being out in public, I bump into people I’ve fucked up with.” He sniffs, tugging at his rings, spinning one. “I just want you to know, at any point, I’ll understand if you don’t want to deal with that anymore, if the impact of the skeletons that’ll keep falling out of my closet outweigh what you were hoping to get out of this—”
“Sebastian—”
He shoves open his door before I can say more. Then he rounds to my side, drawing open my door after I begin to open it.
Sighing, I ease out of the car. Sebastian shuts my door, and we walk side by side up to the front of my building, then stop and turn, facing each other.
I step close and take my clothes from him, then tuck them under one arm. With my free arm, I find his hand and squeeze it tight in mine. “You keep hopping out of cars, very determined not to listen to me, but I made myself heard earlier, and I’m going to make myself heard now: This is worth it to me.”
He stares at me, face tight. “What is?”
“Being friends. It’s worth it, whatever it is that you think will make me back out or not stick with you. You’re worth it. And I’m not going to be spooked by a couple skeletons.”
“Yes, well, I have a lot of them,” he mutters, massaging the bridge of his nose.
“I know.” Letting go of his hand, I slip the key into my apartment building’s door, then glance over my shoulder. “And I like you anyway. Goodnight, Sebastian.”
He peers up at me from the sidewalk, gray eyes pale and glowing in the darkness. “Goodnight, Sigrid.”
Legs dead, body spent, I walk up to my apartment door, grateful that the past forty-eight hours since the fundraiser and after-party have been a blur. Early rising yesterday, flying out for our away game. Practice, team meeting, team meal, talking with Charlie in our hotel room about the event and after-party—carefully omitting those kisses Sebastian and I shared. Then Sunday’s exhausting but victorious game and rushing to catch our flight home. It’s all been so mercifully busy, I haven’t had much free time for my mind to play a loop of those kisses.
Because when it does have free time, that’s exactly what it does: replays every moment, every kiss, every touch, over and over.
I have never thought this much about kissing someone. Or about the outcome of those kisses: Sebastian asking if we could just be friends.
Ouch.
Now, without the away-game hustle to occupy my brain, I need to find something else to keep my mind busy until I leave for the National Team’s international friendlies the day after tomorrow. I plan to hide in a book this evening, always a sure way to distract myself from real life’s complications. Then I’ll just have to figure out some other mind-occupying coping strategy until I’m focused on soccer again, and I can push the memory of those kisses right out of my head. For good.
Quiet moments like I have right now, rooting around for my keys, are the problem. My empty mind wanders, and all I can see or think or feel is Sebastian brushing back my hair from my face as he peered up at me from that chaise, the way he looked at me when he saw me home and we said goodnight…
That’s when I get myself into trouble.
At least, until I open my apartment door, confronted with a new kind of trouble, and a very disconcerting development:
My fortress has been breached.
Standing on the threshold, I take in the sight of my brother Viggo’s long jean-clad legs stretched out from my reading chair, his face hidden behind one of my favorite fantasy romance novels. I glance to my right, where my tiny kitchen is located, and there’s my brother Oliver, peeling a string cheese.
“Well.” I shut the door behind me. “I guess I should be grateful I outlasted you this long.”
“Truly impressive,” Oliver agrees, dropping a strand of cheese into his mouth. “Definitely the longest any of the siblings have managed to keep us from breaking and entering.”
Viggo drops the book only far enough to peer over the top of it. “Wow. Faery smut is good.”
“Told you.” I drop my keys on the kitchen counter and let my duffel bag fall to the floor, too. “So.” Leaning a hip against the counter, I open my arms wide. “To what do I owe this honor of you lords of mischief breaking in?”
Viggo glances at Oliver. Oliver glances at Viggo. One of their silent eye conversations seems to ensue.
I watch them with a growing sense of annoyance. It’s hard not to be jealous sometimes, of how deep their bond runs, the way it makes me feel a little like a third wheel. In our family’s birth order, Viggo and Oliver are the youngest besides me, born so close in age they act like twins and look like it, too. Both of them are a similar blend of Mom and Dad, slightly favoring Mom’s sharp bone structure and her pale blue-gray eyes. Oliver got Mom’s blond hair that he shares with Freya and my brother Ryder, and keeps his facial hair to a neat, golden stubble. Viggo’s chocolate-brown hair is like our oldest brother Axel’s, his beard thick and dark, tinged with auburn.
While as kids we played together a lot, he and Oliver have always had this frustrating habit of closing ranks and huddling up, just the two of them, when they’re getting themselves into mischief.
Which they definitely are right now, paying this visit, even if I’m not sure what that mischief is. Yet.
