He made a face as he took a sip. “It would taste better with a little less sweet, a lot more tea, and maybe a few shots of vodka.”
“No vodka,” she said firmly. She pointed a fork at him. “Eat.”
He picked up the piece of fried chicken and eyed her narrowly. The left eye was no longer the pristine blue-green it had once been. It was slightly foggy and she knew the vision had been affected by the injury. There was an intensity to his gaze now that hadn’t been there a year ago, and combined with the overall sensuality—that hadn’t faded—Sebastien’s stare could almost be considered a deadly weapon.
“You realize this is a little different from your standard fare,” he said, pointing the drumstick toward her.
“I know. Eat. We need to get you sobered up and figure out if you have anything decent in your closet.” Lips pursed, she studied him. “Then again, we might have to go shopping. I doubt anything you used to have would fit.”
He already had a bite in his mouth. He managed to swallow before saying, “I’m not going.”
“Oh, yes. You are.” Marin gave him a serene smile.
“No. I’m not.”
She just cocked a brow at him and smiled coolly.
***
I’m not going.
Sebastien thought the words to himself.
Then, just to make sure he had them down, he said them . . . quietly. “I’m not going . . .” He thought he almost had the voice for Manny the mammoth from Ice Age. His nephew loved that movie. Or at least he used to. He hadn’t talked to the kid in forever. Scowling, he shoved the thought aside and then practiced the words again.
Yeah, they sounded right. Sounded like he meant them.
So why in the hell was he sitting in the back of a hired limo with Marin, on the way to the airport?
Marin took out the Bluetooth and looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Didn’t I say, I’m not going?” He stared at her.
She looked amused. “You did. And yet . . .” She looked around the car, a faint smile on her pretty mouth.
Sebastien looked away so she wouldn’t see him staring at those lips, wouldn’t realize he still thought about kissing her. A lot. All the time.
“So I said I wasn’t going. I meant it. Yet I’m in a car with you and I don’t really want to be. I think this could count as kidnapping.” Arms crossed over his chest, he glared straight ahead. He suspected she was about to start laughing and if she did, he’d probably smile and he didn’t want to do that. He didn’t want to go to Vegas or see his family. He’d fucked things up with them, but he wasn’t ready to fix things, either.
He wanted to go back to his house on the beach, get drunk, and just . . . be.
When it was just him, or him and Marin, he didn’t have to think about what an asshole he was. He didn’t have to think about what a failure he was.
“Seb . . .”
It wasn’t until she touched his hand that he realized she’d slid across the wraparound bench seat to sit closer. She covered his hand with hers, and in that moment, he turned his around and grabbed hers, clinging to her desperately. There was understanding in her eyes. Like she got it. Like maybe she understood what it was to mess up . . . everything.
He wanted a drink, needed it, even. But while there might have been something stashed in the built-in bar, he wasn’t about to look. He couldn’t do that. Not with Marin here. It wasn’t like he was hiding anything. There wasn’t much to hide from her. But he didn’t have to show that much of his weakness, either.
So he battled the urge down and let all the words come spilling out instead.
“I fucked up, Marin. I . . . Shit, I hurt all of them. I can’t look at them now. Not yet.”
“If not now, then when?” she asked softly, laying her hand on his cheek.
For a second, his brain went all fuzzy and blank and he couldn’t think about anything except how nice that felt, having her touch him.
Then he noticed how nice she smelled and he closed his eyes, his head drooping forward a bit as he breathed her in.
His brow bumped hers and he tensed, ready for her to pull away.
She didn’t, though.
For a few seconds, neither of them breathed and Seb wondered what she’d do if he kissed her.
Really kissed her, gorged on her the way he wanted to gorge on booze. He could get drunk on her instead, and he thought maybe that might help even more than the buzz from a few drinks. Maybe . . .
Then he wanted to smack himself. She’d probably let him. Let him kiss her, at least. Because she felt sorry for him. Why in the hell else was she always coming around?
He was pathetic.
And he felt even more pathetic because every time she showed up at his door, instead of pushing her away, he did the exact opposite. As soon as she was gone, he was missing her again.
Gut burning, he pulled back and turned his head to the side. In the windows, made darker by the privacy tint, he could see his face. It was just a vague reflection but it was enough to see a rough hint of the scar. That fucking scar.
It made him think of how she’d seen his face a year ago, then passed out.