If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(61)

Ziggy lists toward me. I list toward her, too.

Her hands settle on my elbows, mine on her hips. Our heads bend, coming closer. Our noses brush. I clench my jaw, fighting white-hot desire’s pull that pulses through me.

You can do this, Seb. Be strong. Be the friend you told her you want to be.

Slowly, carefully, I ease my arms out of her grip, then wrap them around her, holding Ziggy in a bear hug to my chest. “Thank you,” I tell her.

I feel her smile against my shoulder. “For what?”

“For letting me crash your night. For stealing a rather large bite of my chocolate cake—hey!” I shove her hand out of my side, where she’s poked me, trying that tickle shit again. “For online grocery shopping with me. For helping me. And, uh…for the hug, earlier. That felt good.”

Turning her head, she sets her chin on my shoulder and squeezes her arms around my waist. “This is a pretty good hug you’re serving, too, ya know.”

“I’ve learned from the best.”

She smiles against my neck, then slowly pulls away, staring at me. I stare at her, too. Our eyes hold as my hand starts circling her back, as hers drifts along my side. I don’t know who does it first, but our hips brush, then our chests. Our mouths are so close.

Ziggy’s throat works with a swallow. Mine does, too.

You promised you wouldn’t. For once, let your promise mean something.

Gently, I ease back, even though everything in me screams to lean in and kiss her until we’re both collapsing on the floor, mindless, breathless, lost in each other.

“You’re a good friend, Ziggy Bergman.”

Ziggy bites her lip, then gives me a wide smile that feels like something’s missing in it, a lost piece in a puzzle I can’t quite put my finger on. “I know you don’t think it, but you are, too, Sebastian Gauthier.”

Rather abruptly, she steps out of my arms, smoothing back her hair. She turns and looks in the mirror, inspecting herself. “I think I should just head home now. I’ll shower there.”

I want to argue, tell her to take a shower here, relax, wear my clothes, lie around and eat all these gluten-free snacks with me.

But then I think about how hard just the past five minutes have been, how much more torture I’ll put myself through, hearing her shower, picturing all that pale freckled skin, naked and wet, soapy bubbles and beads of water sliding down her throat, over her breasts, her stomach, right to—

God, the heat that blazes through me, just thinking those words. She should definitely go home and shower there.

I clear my throat, then open the bathroom door wide. “Sounds—” My voice is gravel. The state of affairs beneath my fly is painfully tight. I clear my throat, then finally manage to tell her, “Sounds like a good idea.”





20





SEBASTIAN





Playlist: “Fire and the Flood,” Vance Joy





I’m working off of three measly hours of sleep, after lying in bed most of the night, once I dropped off Ziggy, rock hard, refusing to touch myself because I knew it would be to the thought of her, and I’m determined not to let myself go there anymore. I won’t let my attraction to her change what’s grown between us, won’t let myself jeopardize the trust and comfort we’re building.

That said, I find it hard to sleep when highly aroused, and my mind was wandering with thoughts that I had to keep dragging back into the platonic lane, where they belonged. So while I’ve made it to her Sunday home game as I said I would, I’m definitely feeling and looking the worse for wear, the bags under my eyes hidden firmly behind sunglasses, an iced coffee cool in my hand as I sit under the warm September sun.

The stadium’s slowly filling up, but I’ve been here for a while, trying to get myself together while sipping my coffee, soaking up the Sunday sunshine.

My leg bounces, nerves for Ziggy zipping through my limbs. I’m always cool and unfazed when I play, but the idea of watching her bear that pressure and expectation makes my chest tight.

I pull out my phone, debating texting her. But I shouldn’t.

Should I?

A friend would text.

Wouldn’t they?

What the hell do you have to say that she wants to hear? She doesn’t need your good luck wishes. She doesn’t need you at all.

Right. I pocket my phone, then sip my coffee again.

“Gauthier.” Frankie’s voice snaps through the air, and I startle so badly, I nearly spill coffee all over myself.

My agent plops down beside me in her first-row stadium seat, because of course, once I told him I was going, Ren made sure we had seats together.

Frankie looks formidable as always, badass business incarnate. Black V-neck sleeveless top, black linen shorts, her ubiquitous black Nike Cortez sneakers with their silver logo along the side. She’s got her dark ponytail threaded through an Angel City black ball cap bearing the pink angel logo, and big, black sunglasses hiding her eyes. Settling into her seat, she nestles her cane between her legs and flexes her fingers across the handle, making the rock she wears on her fourth finger flash right in my eyes. How can one person be so terrifying?

“What,” she says under her breath as she stares out at the field, “the hell are you up to?”

I’ve been waiting for this. It was only a matter of time before she cornered me and threatened to cut my balls off if I fucked this up—with my reputation rehab, with Ziggy, with all of it.