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“Ah, that’s okay. This is what happens when Gigi and I babysit her niece. I always get some crud from her. But she’s cute, so it’s worth it.”
I smile, thinking of my niece and nephew, little Linnea and baby Theo, who have definitely shared a couple bugs with me, after evenings of babysitting, snuggles, and cuddles. “Take it easy, and get some rest,” I tell her.
“Will do. Good luck tomorrow. Sorry I’ll be leaving you high and dry in the midfield.”
“Well, I’ll let it go this once, but after tomorrow, no more abandoning me. I’ll miss you out there. Talk after the game, okay?”
“’Kay.” She sneezes loudly, and, by the sounds of a clunk followed by her far-off voice, drops the phone. “Bye, Zigs!”
The call disconnects, and I pocket my phone, then step up to the door, peering through the peephole. Good thing I’m not holding my phone anymore, because I’d drop it, too.
Sebastian Gauthier is on the other side of my door. Leaning against the opposite wall, he looks like he could be sleeping—head back, eyes shut, hands in his pockets.
He was quiet those couple of days after our big night, minimally communicative when scheduling angry yoga. And then he dropped off again after Wednesday evening, when I texted him the link to a really positive write-up about him. It featured photos of Sebastian with the attending kids and his teammates at the roller rink fundraiser, as well as of the two of us smiling at each other over breakfast after rage yoga, saying it seems he’s finally turned over a new leaf—a huge PR win.
And what did he do?
He tapped back a double exclamation point and hasn’t said a word since. Damn tapbacks: where in-depth text conversations go to die.
So why is Mr. Tapback and Go Radio Silent here?
Curious, I unlock the door, then open it. “Sebastian?”
His eyes snap open as he jolts, then pushes off the wall. Clearing his throat, he rakes a hand through his hair, not the way he does when he wants to fix it, but in the way I’ve already learned means he’s uneasy. “Hey, Ziggy.”
I stare at him, as butterflies burst to life in my stomach and flutter right through my limbs. My fingertips tickle. My toes curl.
He’s a little rumpled—faded blue jeans that look old and loved hugging his powerful hockey player legs, even leaned up from his obvious weight loss. His pale gray-green T-shirt—the one that I love, the one that makes his eyes jump—is wrinkled and drapes too loosely on his shoulders. There’s so much ink to look at, more than I’ve ever seen, weaving up his arms and biceps, peeking out at his collarbones.
I’m blushing. I have to be, knowing how hot my cheeks feel. Clearing my throat, I hold open my door. “Do you, uh…want to come in?”
He seems to hesitate, halfway between the wall and my door. “Yeah. If that’s okay.”
“Sure. Of course. Yes.” I lean behind the door and hide for a second as I open it wide for him, grimacing at myself. Could I be more awkward?
Stepping into my apartment, Sebastian moves past me, out of the way, so I can close the door. He stands almost unnaturally still, like a cat ready to bolt, tension coiling his body as he shoves his hands into his pockets. There’s nothing of the nonchalant, sardonic man who breezed into my place just a few weeks ago, ripped up my jeans into shorts, and busted me about my whole wardrobe being athleticwear.
“What’s wrong, Sebastian?”
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but often, that’s how things go with me. I’m honest to a fault, not just in what I share but what I ask. Frankie says it’s damn refreshing, but then again, she’s autistic, too—she appreciates my candor. Not everyone does, though. I’ve learned that the hard way.
Slowly, Sebastian glances my way, his gaze traveling my face up to my hair. I am suddenly reminded my wet hair is twisted into my favorite dragon-print towel turban. My hands reflexively go there as Sebastian stares at it, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Dragons, huh?”
I clear my throat, letting my hands fall. “They’re my favorite reptile.”
His smile deepens, and my heart kicks in my chest. “I didn’t know imaginary creatures were fair game for favorites.”
“Who says they’re imaginary?”
He presses his tongue into his cheek. “Science?”
“There’s no science disproving the existence of dragons.”
“Except the fact that we’ve never seen one.”
“Just because we haven’t seen something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.” I fold my arms across my chest and prop a foot on the wall as I rest against it. “Some of the most beautiful discoveries have come from the persistent pursuit of a possibility most people were too ready to give up on.”
Sebastian leans his hip into my kitchen counter, eyes dancing over my face, up to the towel turban again. “Fair enough.”
