If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(25)

I glance past him, chin resting on his shoulder, and realize the music has faded; there’s no Yuval anymore.

“Where’d they go?” I ask, pulling away, blotting my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Sebastian’s quiet at first, as he softly scrapes his fingers through my hair, pressing back every flyaway that’s stuck to my tear-and sweat-soaked face. “I gave them a nod, and they stepped out.”

I search his face, confused.

He reads my expression, those cool silver eyes turned warmer, liquid mercury, bright and alive. “Some things aren’t for just anyone to witness, Sigrid. This was one of them.” He squeezes my shoulders gently, then steps back. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“But our outing, being seen—”

“We don’t need to go on that outing when you feel like this.”

I shake my head, wiping my nose again. “Sebastian, I’m okay. I mean…I’m okay to do that. I want to.”

He looks skeptical, maybe even…worried. “Ziggy—”

“I promise. I’m not just saying it.” I exhale slowly, peacefully. My chest feels like a weight’s gone from it. I feel both tired and energized, like I could curl up in a ball just as much as I could run a dead sprint. “I need something in my stomach besides coffee anyway—I’m jittery. And I’m low on groceries. I don’t have anything at my place to eat besides granola bars, and I need way more than that if I’m going to eat my feelings, which I fully plan to.”

He seems to deliberate before finally reaching for his boot, ripping open the Velcro and sliding it on. “Then let’s get you some breakfast, after all.”





9





SEBASTIAN





Playlist: “Mountain To Move,” Nick Mulvey





Ziggy’s been quiet on our drive to the café, one of those places where people go to see and be seen. There’s a long, roofed balcony with tables that are highly visible. It’s the perfect place to be photographed from, which is what Ziggy insisted she wanted, even after what happened at yoga.

She and I take our seats at the table, still in workout clothes, though I changed my shirt, since it was sweat soaked, and Ziggy’s wearing her hoodie now—lightweight sage green, draped just past her hips, the one she was wearing when she walked into my place. It’s the same color as the dress she wore to Ren and Frankie’s wedding.

When I saw it this morning, tantalizing memories of her from that day flooded my thoughts, memories I’ve tried hard to unsee, but watching her strip it off in my kitchen is what sent me over the edge, free-falling into a terribly erotic fantasy. That long, red hair, drifting between my fingers. My mouth tasting every freckle as I kissed my way down her spine—

I grit my teeth, hating myself for how incapable I seem to be of stopping this—thinking about her, wanting her. I have no business wanting Ziggy, not just because of who she is to Ren, not even mostly because of that, but because she is good.

And I am not. There is no world where I’d be worthy of her.

Not that my fantasies involve anything…serious. If I had Ziggy, it would be once—no, one night—a deliciously long, sleepless night. And then, like every other person I’ve sexually enjoyed, she’d be out of my system.

It would be a simple release. An itch scratched.

Except, when Ziggy clears her throat, opening her menu, her eyes still a little puffy from crying, a sharp twinge tugs in my chest. I’ve never felt that way, looking at someone who was an itch to be scratched.

I’ve never felt that way looking at anyone. And I certainly haven’t tried to make them laugh.

Avoiding the temptation to look at her, I focus on my smoothie options, determined to move past this uncomfortable tug in my chest, the twitch in my hands to reach for her the way I did in my workout room.

“Sebastian.”

I jolt, hearing my name in her voice, that tinge of husky smoke at its edge, the way I can only imagine it is after she screams her way through an orgasm, breathless and hoarse.

I make a fist with one hand beneath the table, so my rings will cut into my fingers. A lick of pain to punish myself for where I let my mind wander again.

Forcing my expression into cool neutrality, I glance up from my menu.

But fuck if there’s nothing neutral about what I feel when I look at her, those deep green eyes locked on me, her face serious.

“Sigrid?” I say quietly.

She bites her lip, worrying the napkin between her fingers as she stares at me. “Thank you.”

My heart jumps in my chest. But I keep my expression blank. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“I do,” she whispers, biting her lip harder.

“Stop.” I nudge my chin toward her lip pinned between her teeth. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

She lets her lip go, but arches an eyebrow, planting her elbows on the table and leaning in. “Says the guy who’s been on a self-harm bender for…how long?”

I arch an eyebrow back, my heart pounding. Who the fuck does she think she is, calling me out like that? “Careful.”

“Of what?” she asks, tipping her head. “Touching a nerve? Saying something to your face everyone else is too scared to say?”