Sebastian?
She wanted it to be him.
She didn’t want it to be him.
But mostly, as in ninety percent mostly, she did want it to be him, despite her belief that going their separate ways was for the best.
She moved her attention from the paper she was grading to her phone, and for the first time since she’d argued with him in Atlanta, the caller ID displayed the name Sebastian Grant.
She covered her mouth with her hand and listened to it ring again. What should she do?
Her body decided for her. Without permission, her fingers shot out and answered. “Hello?”
“I miss you.”
“Who did you say was calling?”
“Are you still angry?”
She gathered her thoughts. “No, I’m not still angry. However, I do stand behind the concerns I verbalized.”
He made a sound of frustration. “You know what? Talking on the phone with you isn’t going to work.” She heard rustling. “We need to talk in person.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m going to drive there.”
“What? It’s eight o’clock. On a school night.”
“I’m locking my apartment now. I’m already on the way to my car.”
She spluttered. “You have work in the morning, don’t you?”
“I don’t care.”
“Round trip, the drive will take you more than three hours.”
“I don’t care.”
“I’m not sure if it makes sense—”
“I’ll see you in less than an hour and forty minutes,” he informed her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Concentration proved impossible after Sebastian’s phone call. So impossible that she couldn’t finish grading. She ended up funneling her nervous energy and conflicting thoughts into cleaning.
“What’re you doing?” Dylan asked during one of his kitchen snack breaks.
“Straightening up.”
“When you clean, you make me help. And you never clean at this time of night. Plus, you’re moving at, like, twice your usual speed.”
“Sebastian is going to stop by.”
“Even though he lives in Atlanta?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“And isn’t your boyfriend?”
“It’s complicated.”
He chuckled all the way back to his room.
She was Swiffering the hardwood floor when Sebastian’s headlights bounced onto her driveway. She set the broom aside and pushed her arms into a fitted blue sweatshirt. Wearing the yoga pants and tennis shoes she’d donned for her after-work hike earlier, she stepped onto the front porch.
He shut his car door and crossed to her. The serious lines of his features emphasized glowing gray eyes. He’d clothed his tall body in worn jeans and a casual black pullover with a short, open zipper at the neck.
He stopped a yard away and scrutinized her. She scrutinized him right back. She’d had time to prepare for him. Even so, she was not prepared for him. Had she really believed just a few short months ago that she was incapable of experiencing physical attraction? Now she was suffused with it to the point that it threatened to decimate clear thought and good intentions.
He’d said on the phone that he missed her. She’d missed him, too. His assurance, humor, self-reliance. And beneath all of that, a very real storehouse of goodness. Her world had been small and dull without him in it.
“Come in.” She led him to the now-spotless kitchen, the room farthest from Dylan’s room. “Can I get you anything?”
“No.” He leaned against the countertop, facing her, his hands curled around its edge on either side of his hips.
She leaned against the opposing counter and crossed her arms. It really was exceptional, the combustion that thickened the air when they were together. Like the Force in Star Wars—invisible and powerful.
“I’m sorry that I didn’t ask you first before calling the dean about Dylan,” he said. “And I’m also sorry that I didn’t say anything about it when you mentioned the dean’s email. My motives were good, but my execution sucked. If my execution sucked, then it doesn’t matter what my motives were.”
“Your motives do matter to me, actually. I know you wanted to help. It’s just the—the way you helped happened to poke right at my worst fear, which is my own helplessness. Or, in this case, my concern that you perceived me as helpless.”
“I view you as the least helpless woman I’ve ever met.”
“Honestly?”
“Yes.”
The admission unwound something tight within her. “I’m sorry, too. I wish I’d reacted with more patience.”
Hip-hop music pulsed softly from Dylan’s room.
“I can’t help but want to do things for you,” he said, “to show you how I feel. But there’s very little I can do, so when I saw my chance, I took it.”
“I don’t tend to receive acts of service well, which is a flaw of mine. If you want to express how you feel about me, I recommend that you tell me.”
“I care about you.” His eyes held hers. “A lot. I’m worried you don’t feel the same about me because I haven’t heard from you for a week.”
“I . . .” She selected her words the way she’d carefully choose shells on a beach. “I care about you, too. I didn’t call you because it seems to me that parting ways at this point is the wisest step.”
His mouth thinned. “Why?”
“Because our . . . connection was supposed to be carefree and fun.”
“It is carefree and fun.” He spoke in a voice so much the opposite of carefree and fun that she laughed.
“No,” she insisted, “it’s not.”
“Your time with me in Atlanta wasn’t fun?”
“It was fun—up until we argued. It hasn’t been fun since then. Potentially worse, though . . . my feelings for you are no longer as lighthearted as I’d have them be.”
“Explain to me why it’s important to you that your feelings for me stay lighthearted.”
“So many reasons.”
“I’d like to hear them all.”
“Well, before I’d feel comfortable allowing my feelings for you to become more . . . entrenched, I’d want to have some assurance that you’ll be able to let me in. Otherwise, what are we doing here? We’re wasting our time because we’re destined for failure.”
He seemed to weigh her point of view. “I’ve been letting you in. As much as I can. This is me, letting you in.”
“And what about trust? Do you think you’ll be able to bring yourself to trust me?” She hastened to add, “I won’t blame you if the answer’s no. If the answer’s no, I’ll understand why.”
“Look, I can’t stand here with a straight face and tell you that I’m skilled at relationships. I’m not. But I can tell you that I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I think about you all day. In any given moment, I’m more worried about your happiness than my own. Food tastes terrible to me. I can’t concentrate. Markie has accused me of waking up on the wrong side of the bed every day this week.” He scratched the back of his neck. “You’re worried about taking this to the next level, and I get it—because so am I. I’m worried enough about where this is going that I’ve been losing sleep over it. But here’s what it comes down to for me: I’m willing to lose sleep over it. The thing I am not willing to lose right now . . . is you.”