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“And you weren’t going to come find me?” Then a new, worse thought occurs to me. “Wait, did you actually know and were just trying to get rid of me?”
“No! And it’s not like I had your number or anything.” She worries her lower lip between her teeth, which makes me think there’s more going on in that complicated little head of hers.
I sigh as I reach across her empty seat to flip open the door. “Get in. I’ll take you to my parents’ house for the night, and we can come back in the morning.”
Her mouth hardens. “I already told you, I’m not going to be the random girl you picked up at a bar who crashes the St. Claire family Christmas. I’m just going to go to a nearby hotel. The first train tomorrow leaves at 6:10, so I won’t even be there that long.”
God, she’s stubborn.
“Well I’m not leaving you on the street after dark. Get in.” She hesitates because of course she does, and I grit out, “I swear, I’ll drive you to a hotel, and then you’ll never see me again.”
She hesitates again before finally nodding, and I pop the trunk so she can stash her stuff one more time. When she slides into the passenger seat, I try to ignore how right it feels to have her there, like she’s brought a burst of crisp, clean air in with her.
As we drive away from Union Station, I offer one point of clarification.
“By the way, you’re not a random girl I picked up at a bar,” I say. When she looks at me in confusion, I add, “We both know thatyoupickedmeup.”
THIRTEEN
Birdy
The last thing I wanted was Sebastian walking me to my hotel room.
That’s because it’s theonlything I wanted.
Saying no to his invitations, telling him we had no future, shutting down the hope I saw in his eyes, it almost killed me. But it was also the right thing to do. Nice-guy, nice-family, nice-job Sebastian St. Claire is the real deal, and I’m not in the market for real deals. Didn’t I just sell the last thing in the world that was truly mine to avoid having roots?
Sebastian St. Claire feels like roots.
And now he’s dumping my suitcases inside the door of the hotel room he insisted on walking me to, and I let him because I’m weak. The door swings shut behind him, and God help me because I don’t know how I’ll push him out now.
“Thanks for letting me carry your bags,” he says, looking around as if he’s a security expert who can tell at a glance if the window locks are secure. Then he crosses to the nightstand and picks up the pad of paper set there.
“What are you doing?”
He grabs a pen, scrawls a few lines, and rips off the top paper.
“This is my cell phone number and my parents’ address. If you change your mind, please call me. Or just show up.” His eyes are soft, exactly the way I like them. “I promise you, every member of my family would be thrilled if you did.”
He folds the paper and slips it into the front pocket of the bag holding Miss Gouda, then shakes his head as if he can’t believe the situation he’s found himself in.
“I think I have to be done here, Birdy. Have a nice life.”
He gives me one last searching look before turning toward the door.
“Wait!”
The word bursts from my throat, and my brain and my heart go to war over what to do next.
My heart wins.
I cross the room in three short steps, and when I reach him, I throw my arms around his neck and press my lips to his.
He freezes for a terrifying, stomach-churning moment, and I’m sure he’s going to push me away.
Instead, he groans and buries his hands in my hair, angling my head up so he can meet my lips with his own. “Oh thank Christ,” he murmurs as he backs me toward the bed.
I don’t answer because I’m too busy pushing his coat off his shoulders and sliding my hands under his shirt to pull it up and off. Then we’re kissing again.
