If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(13)

But now I’m sitting here, smelling weed and whiskey titrating out of his system. I’m seeing purple smudges under his eyes and a pale, thin scar slashed across his left eyebrow. A freckle at the base of his throat.

Now he feels…human. Formidably, terrifyingly human. Humans are hard for me. To read, to learn, to understand. Looking at him, I’m wondering if I bit off way more than I can chew.

And I’m also feeling how strong he is.

His grip is very strong.

I stare down at his hand covered in intricate webs of ink, numbers, and signs, fragmented words twisted around his fingers, curled down his wrist to his arm.

Heat floods my cheeks. It’s better to stare at his hand, considering the tats on his hands have nothing on what’s stretched across his bare chest, beneath those silver chains. I’ve always stared longer than I should when I’m curious. And I’m very curious about what’s inked across his torso. I don’t want to stare at Sebastian Gauthier—his torso, or otherwise. At all.

A growing sense of dread seeps through me. I could not be more his opposite. How the heck am I going to pass as this guy’s friend? How are we going to convince anyone that we’re actually people who share the same world?

“Ziggy.” Sebastian’s voice is rough at the edges, ragged from what I imagine to be some combination of smoke and sleeplessness and too much alcohol. He sounds dangerous and daunting.

And yet, I still glance up, meeting those sharp, silver eyes, telling myself to be brave. “Yes, Sebastian?”

He draws his hand away and folds his arms across his chest. “Stop calling me that.”

“Why?”

His eyes narrow. “I told you this already. You infiltrated my property. You don’t get to ask questions.”

“But we’re friends now,” I remind him, smiling sweetly. “Friends tell each other these things.”

“We’re pretend friends. Pretend I told you.”

“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “Maybe it’s our ‘friend’ thing. I call you Sebastian. No one else does. Yeah, I like it.”

His hands come to his face, scrubbing it. “I need a drink.”

“Pretty sure you’ve got a couple still sloshing through your bloodstream.”

His hands drop, and he flashes me an exasperated look, chased by a wolfish smirk. “Never stopped me before.”

“But now that you’re on the path to self-improvement, it will.”

Sebastian’s eyes scour my face, before he leans in, bathing me in the sour scent of weed and whiskey. I wrinkle my nose. “Let’s get something very clear, here…” He tips his head. “What is your full name? It’s not just Ziggy, is it?”

My stomach knots. “I don’t go by my full name.”

“Neither do I,” he points out. “But that hasn’t stopped you from using it.”

I sigh, annoyed. “Fine. But you can’t tell anyone else.” Extending my pinkie, I lift it toward him. “Promise.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. His tongue pokes into his cheek. “A pinkie promise? Is that what I’m being held to?”

Undeterred, I offer my pinkie. “I mean it, Sebastian.”

His expression turns frosty. “Go on, then.” His finger hooks mine, hard, jolting me.

“It’s Sigrid,” I blurt. “Sigrid Marta Bergman.”

Like Ren, whose full name is S?ren, after Dad’s beloved S?ren Kierkegaard, I used to get teased about my full name in school. I dropped it in upper elementary school and took the name Viggo gave me as a preschooler when he couldn’t say Sigrid. It started as Siggy, then became Ziggy, until the whole family called me that.

I have a lot of bad memories tied to the name Sigrid. I should be the first person to honor Sebastian’s request not to call him by his full name. Maybe he has bad memories tied to his full name, too. But, pettily, I’ve wanted something on this man who, even in his disheveled, haggard state, displays the kind of nonchalant composure and confidence that I frankly envy.

“Sigrid,” he says quietly, eyes dancing over my face again. “It’s…unusual. But sweet. In a…cardigan-wearing, prim-librarian sort of way—”

I shove him, because with as many brothers as I have, physical retaliation after being teased is a reflex.

He smirks, self-satisfied, and flops back in his chair. “I wasn’t done, you know.”

“I don’t care.” Standing, I walk away from him and face the ocean, already kicking myself for tethering my life to this schmuck for the next however long, until we both get what we want out of each other.

Glaring out at the ocean, feeling the dregs of my little milkshake buzz dissolve just like the sun on the horizon, I sigh heavily.

And then I feel him, warm and close behind me. “I was going to say…” His voice whispers across my neck, the sound of midnight smoke and starlight dancing down dark alleys. “This librarian…by day, she’s very well-behaved. Proper, quiet, sweet…” His breath brushes my ear, and I shiver. “But by night, she’s a dominatrix, a wild animal finally let out of her cage.”

My eyes widen. Heat floods my cheeks.

And then he’s gone, the deck set between us as he sinks back into his chair. “You’re fun to scandalize.”