Chris opened his mouth, stopped, threw a look at Liev behind him, and then nodded at Sebastian. “Sure, dude. Go do what you have to do. You coming to the party?”
Sebastian drew in a slow breath, turned to Grace, who was now frowning at him, and then back to Chris. “I don’t know.”
And with that, he waved some more at the still-clapping crowd, bowed once, and threaded his fingers through Grace’s. “I need to get out of here.”
“Okay.” Just like that. Nothing about wanting to meet more famous people, or how she’d gotten all dressed up and hadn’t even gotten to the party yet. Just a simple okay and a subtle increase of pressure from her fingers around his.
He walked out of the Opera House’s main hall holding her hand. A lifeline likely to rebel if she knew what was in his head.
Hell, what was in his head? A notion so absurd, so ridiculous, it struck him dumb? It made no sense. She was the one person in his life who never made it easy for him, who refused to let him have his way, when he wanted it. Being in love with her? Absurd.
And yet…
The media and paparazzi were there waiting like slathering animals when they emerged from the iconic building. Police and security kept them at bay, with the help of a thick velvet rope meters from the main doors.
He still held Grace’s hand. Couldn’t let it go. Which was weird, and yet it felt so right and scared the shit out of him all at once. This was Grace Ford. She’d loathed him when they were kids, and as far as he could tell, he was still pretty low on her list of favorite people. He was in her life only because he’d been self-absorbed—the Sebastian Hart she despised.
Any thought of Grace actually liking him was beyond ludicrous.
And his whole reason for the romantic treatment he’d given her so far was to spur generically good-looking Justin into asking her out.
That’s bullshit. Bull. Shit.
“Seb?”
Grace’s soft voice scraped at his sanity. He gritted his teeth and kept walking, silent until he reached the valet’s podium. “Aston Martin,” he damn near snarled, handing the valet the ticket stub. “SEB number plates.”
“You going to talk to me?” Confusion laced Grace’s words. “Or is this what I get because I told you Samantha and Dave isn’t that good?”
Jesus, he should be furious over the film, over how he’d fucked it up. The internet was going to tear it apart, tear him apart. His detractors would swoop in and call him a burnout. He’d be labeled a pretentious poser brought down by his own hubris. Passion projects had a way of biting their creator in the arse, but he’d refused to even entertain the possibility his arse was the next on the menu. He was Sebastian freaking Hart. He didn’t fail. He didn’t make flops. He—
He didn’t fall for a woman who’d once called him an egomaniacal narcissistic bastard.
Releasing her hand, he shoved his into his pockets. “This is what you get for not seeing the brilliance that is my film.”
Grace’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay. The leopard’s spots are back. Y’know what, Seb? I’m going to get an Uber home.”
He tried to grind out the word good. Tried. But again, like back in the Opera House, it wasn’t the word he wanted. Not even close.
“I’m sorry.” Now, those were the right words. The words he wanted. “Grace, I’m sorry. Don’t go. I’m being a dick.” A dick who may or may not be in love with you.
She frowned, eyes unreadable as she studied him.
“Please?”
His Aston Martin arrived before she could answer.
He stood. Waited. What could he do to make this better? It was so far out of his field of expertise, his normal behavior.
Around them, as close as the security and velvet ropes would allow, people and paparazzi photographed them. Grace’s response to his apology—which was no response at all—was captured in digital HD on smartphones and SLRs.
Fuck.
“Please?” he repeated, his gut and chest a thunderstorm of turbulence.
Camera flashes fired. People shouted his name.
“Don’t do that again, Sebastian.” She drew a slow breath, expression as impossible to decipher as the emotion in her eyes. “Don’t remind me of the boy I grew up living beside, not when I’m halfway to liking the man he’s become.”
The sun burst through the storm, filling him with warmth, a delight he’d never experienced before. “Gotcha.” He smiled and opened the passenger door for her. “I won’t. Promise.”
Her lips twisted, part exasperation, part skepticism. But she lowered herself into his car all the same. He caught a glimpse of creamy thigh, and for a split second, the happy warmth flowing through him erupted into an inferno of carnal, male want, a desire that sheared through him, sank into his groin, and stole his breath.
Jesus.
Looking up at him, Grace frowned. “Going to let me close the door?”
“Your wish…”
You have to stop saying that.
He released the door and, with a glance at the hordes watching them, hurried around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
“Did you want to go to the after-party?” He buckled himself in and put the Aston Martin into gear. “There’s one being thrown by the studio on Cockatoo Island.”
It had cost a fortune to get UNESCO to approve the World Heritage-listed small island in the middle of Sydney Harbor as the location of the party, plus a sizeable donation he’d personally offered to the organization. The party was going to be huge. The entertainment reporter, Dickie, had already laid down challenges Sebastian had fully planned to accept. Chris and Liev had hinted at sharing some exciting news with Sebastian he suspected had something to do with adoption papers.
A prickling weight told him Grace was studying his profile. “Do you want to?”
Heart thumping fast, he met her gaze. “Honestly? I think I’d like to find a quiet café somewhere and share a slice of chocolate cake with you. What do you think?”
“I think”—she paused, expression hidden by the Aston Martin’s dim interior—“I know the very café.”
A tangled rush of emotions flowed through him—relief, desire, guilt, hope.
She gave him directions, her voice calm, her instructions simple. It was their only conversation, as if they’d both accepted they were on the cusp of something neither could process.
“Here.”
He pulled into the closest parking space to the café she’d brought them to and killed the engine.
Silence stretched.
He tried not to fidget in his seat, but he did. God, since when did he feel nerves?
“This is not a date.”
Her short statement made him suck in a sharp breath. “What?”
Shaking her head, she opened the door, not looking at him. “I mean, I know you don’t think it is. Someone like you doesn’t date someone like me, especially with our history, but I just needed to put it out there. For my own sake. And please don’t read anything into it. I just…needed to vocalize it.”
And with that, she climbed out of the Aston Martin and closed the door.
She was at the café’s door by the time he alighted from the car, elbows cupped in her palms, her eyes closed.
Damn it, she was beautiful. Defiant. Real. And yet, at the same time, somehow lost. Haunted.
He strode over to her, fighting the need to take her hand in his and pull her to his body. She’d denied him his last request for a kiss, had said he could ask her later, but something told him now was not the time.
“I don’t think you’ve got any worry about being swarmed by fans and paparazzi here.” A small smile played with her lips. “If you are, I’m sure Mr. Padalecki will deal with it.”
She pushed the door open without any further explanation and entered the café. He followed, curiosity joining the storm of other emotions building in him.
The interior was muted and earthy. Small, intimate tables suitable for couples and small groups sat in a rambling order on
the unpolished wooden floor. Almost all the tables were occupied save a few. On the paint-stripped walls were an eclectic collection of classic 1960s movie posters, photos of dogs, and paintings of iconic Sydney locations. The soft sounds of piano music wafted from unseen speakers.
Sebastian cocked his head. “Is that a lounge-music version of AC/DC’s ‘Highway to Hell’ playing?”
Grace smiled, the multitude of candles on all the tables somehow flickering in her eyes. “It is. Mr. Padalecki’s daughter is a classically trained pianist who loves hard rock music more than Beethoven and Mozart.”
“Wow.” He closed his eyes, absorbing what should be a discordant combination but wasn’t. “I like it.”
“Me, too.”
“Grace?”
The warm, surprised male voice opened Sebastian’s eyes. An elderly gentleman no taller than his shoulder strode across the floor toward them, wiping his hands on the white apron tied around his lean waist.
“Hello, Mr. Padalecki.” She gave him a hug when he reached them. “Long time no see.”
“Are you coming back to work for me?” A thick Polish accent filled each word. “I’ve missed you.”
She smiled. “Maybe. You need a waitress?”
Mr. Padalecki sighed and then beamed at her. “I do not. But for you, I will make a position.”
Grace laughed, awakening a fresh wave of disarming, unsettling emotions in Sebastian. “Perhaps for tonight, we might just start with coffee and a slice of your famous Death by Chocolate?”
Padalecki shot Sebastian a quick glance, the inspection turning into a frown. “Table for two? Not three?”
“Unfortunately, Gary isn’t with me, Mr. Padalecki. He passed away two years ago.”
A soft sound escaped Padalecki, and he embraced Grace again. “Przeprazam, kochanie.”
She touched his cheek. “Thank you.”
He smiled and then looked at Sebastian again. “She is dear to me, sir. That is a warning.”
“Coffee and chocolate cake, Mr. Padalecki.” Grace squeezed his hand. “No warnings needed.”
“If you insist. This way.” Padalecki turned and made his way to a small table in the far-right corner of the café beneath a framed Citizen Kane movie poster.
Leaving them with a bottle of chilled water, two fat handblown glasses, and another narrow-eyed inspection of Sebastian, Padalecki promised to return soon with their coffee and cake.
“So this is a familiar place for you?” Sebastian poured them both a glass of water. The fact she’d brought him here, to somewhere clearly from her life with her deceased husband, said something to him. He just couldn’t put his finger on what yet.
“I worked here to pay my way through uni. Gary would come in for lunch on his days off with Cody and help Mr. Padalecki prepare for his Australian citizenship test.”
So he was not only a firefighter and an amazing dad, he was also a selfless human. And now she’s having coffee with you and making sure you know it’s not a date.
A cold finger traced up his spine and drilled into the back of his neck.
“Is that why you brought me here? To show me a part of your life?”
She shook her head, her smile stretching. “I brought you here because the chocolate cake is incredible and we won’t be disturbed.”
From what? You telling me to get out of your life?
He raised his water glass and held it above the middle of the table. “To not being disturbed then.”
She chinked her glass to his with a soft chuckle. “To not being disturbed. And to Death by Chocolate.”
They both took sips from their glasses. Sebastian couldn’t stop watching her. When she licked the moisture from her lips, he almost groaned.
“So,” he croaked instead, “why a paramedic? I thought you’d become a scientist or a doctor, or something like that. Why an ambo?”
“A call to help people and a lack of funds to study medicine. Plus, a little baby boy I had extreme difficulty dragging myself away from.” She traced her finger around the rim of her glass, gaze tracking its path. “All of those, but mainly the baby boy. And the fact my dad was getting sicker every day and the thought of not being able to see him because I was studying so much tore me apart.” She lifted her head, her smile warm. “He got to see me graduate, took a photo of me in my paramedic’s uniform on my first day on the job. It was his last post he ever made on Facebook.”
Jesus, she’d had so much loss in her life. So much at such a young age.
“I’m sorry, Grace.” The word didn’t seem enough. Not even close.
She shrugged. “Dad is better off not being in pain, and Mum is now traveling with her sister. Going to all the places her and Dad promised each other they would go.”
“And you are a paramedic, going it alone.” He let out a slow breath. “Don’t you ever accuse yourself of being a failure again, do you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered closed.
He’d never wanted to kiss anyone so much in his life.
“Death by Chocolate.” Padalecki returned, placing a slice of what looked like the most decadent chocolate cake on the table between them. Chocolate syrup and fudge sauce oozed down the sides of the triple-chocolate layer cake, pooling around its base and the chocolate-dipped strawberries adorning the plate along with it. “Two forks. And two coffees.” He placed two forks next to the plate, and then two wide mugs of steaming cappuccinos.
Grace smiled up at him. “Thank you, Mr. Padalecki. As usual, it looks incredible.”
“That’s because I am.” He narrowed another inspection at Sebastian. “Remember my warning, Mr. Hart.”
“You know who I am?”
Padalecki laughed. “Of course I know. But that does not mean I will not break your jaw if you hurt my Grace here.” He smiled. “Now, enjoy.”
…
It’s not a date. It’s not a date.
But it sure as hell felt like one.
By the time they’d finished sharing the cake, they’d done everything a couple did while on a date. They talked about themselves, about their lives, about their food, about their work.
If it wasn’t for the fact she knew the man opposite her, Grace would be patting herself on the back for a first date done well.
But it’s not a date.
So why the hell was her body behaving the way it was? Her stomach fluttered with nervous anticipation as he turned his car into her driveway, her palms were hot and itchy, and the junction of her thighs…
Stop it.
Silence wrapped around them as he killed the engine. The powerful Aston Martin motor ticked away, its fading rhythm mocking Grace’s crazy heartbeat.
Say something.
“I had—”
“Thank you for—” Sebastian began at the same time.
They both laughed. His smile was far more self-deprecating than any she’d seen on his face before. “If this isn’t a clichéd moment from a rom-com I don’t know what is,” he said.
Rom-com. Romance.
Heat flooded her cheeks.
“I mean,” he blurted out, his stare jumping all over the interior of his car, “not that this is a romantic… Shit.”
“A romantic shit?” She lifted an eyebrow, incapable of suppressing the chuckle in her voice. “That’s different.”
He shook his head and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Once again, you put me in my place, Grace. Where were you when I was making Samantha and Dave? I could have used your unique ability to ground me and point out when I’m being wrong.”
“Samantha and Dave isn’t that bad.”
“Yes, it is.”
She sighed, letting him see her smile. “Yes, it is.”
Silence descended. Again.
“Would you like to come in for a cuppa?” Holy crap, did she really just ask that?
This is not a date, woman. Not. A. Date.
A calm stillness fell over him, and he nodded. “I would. I’ve grown partial to Earl Grey.”
&n
bsp; Stomach doing its best granny knot impersonation, she opened her door and climbed out. Sebastian met her on the driveway, the half moon’s silver light draping over him, picking out the broadness of his shoulders, the natural blond highlights of his hair, but hiding his eyes from her.
He offered her his elbow. “M’lady.”
Rolling her eyes, pulse pounding, mouth dry, she took it. Once again, her brain did its best to scream at her just how amazing his arm felt beneath her palm, under her fingers. Just how close his biceps were, how their sculpted curve brushed the backs of her knuckles.
They walked in silence to her front door.
“Is that you, Gracie?” an elderly woman’s voice called behind them.
Catching her breath, Grace turned and waved at Mrs. Hill, who stood in the front door of her house across the street. “It is, Mrs. Hill. Everything’s okay.”
Mrs. Hill waved. “Hello, Gary,” she called. “I haven’t seen you for a while. Is the fire still burning?”
“The fire is indeed burning, Mrs. Hill,” Sebastian called back. “Taking me by surprise, to be honest.”
“Okay.” Mrs. Hill waved. “Have fun then.”
Mrs. Hill shuffled back inside and closed the door.
Grace looked up at Sebastian, her throat thick. There was significance to his response to Mrs. Hill, but she didn’t know what it was. Or was he just playing along, treating the elderly woman kindly? It was very un-Sebastian to do so, but maybe…
Everything about Sebastian you’ve seen since he returned to your life is very un-Sebastian. And it’s messing with your head.
“Sorry about that.” She pretended to search her small purse for her keys, even though she hadn’t taken any. Shelli would let her in when she got home. “Mrs. Hill has mild dementia and constantly forgets Gary was killed.”
“I can handle being Gary, for one night. If it helps.”
Oh God, why did her brain take the statement to a place it had no right going? A place with sheets and pillows and sweat-slicked limbs sliding against one another, and—
The front porch light came on.
The Irredeemable Billionaire (Muse series) Page 12