The Broken One (Corisi Billionaires, #1)(25)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN



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SEBASTIAN

And she’s out.

Once again she’d delivered an entirely different experience than I’d imagined, but it was actually refreshing. Heather was real in a way many of the women I’d dated hadn’t been. Was that why it’d been so easy to move on from one to another?

None of the women I’d spent time with after Therese would have worn matching flannel tops and bottoms. Their drawers were full of slips of lace designed to entice, some bought by me, some bought by the men before me. I felt no guilt when our time together ended—my gifts were likely still being worn by them while they enjoyed their next partner.

I’d have to be more careful with someone like Heather. Had she been joking about never having showered with a man before? There was very little chance that she was still a virgin, somewhere in her late twenties.

Thank God.

I wasn’t looking for that kind of innocence. I didn’t want someone who looked to me to have all the answers or make all the decisions. Been there, done that, and it wasn’t a role I played well. I wanted someone who would challenge me, go toe to toe with me when I was wrong. My parents argued, but they made up and seemed stronger from it.

My mother was a sweet woman, but she had a temper. I don’t think a man in my family would ever forget the day we’d all been so wrapped up in whatever we were doing that not one of us had called to tell her we’d be late for Sunday dinner.

When we’d finally gathered, oblivious and hungry, she’d walked out of the kitchen with a full tray of food and dumped it right on the floor of the dining room. She’d said only one word, “Respect,” before she’d walked out of the room.

My father had sprinted after her.

Message received.

The following Sunday had gone more smoothly. My family didn’t keep grudges. We said how we felt, yelled it sometimes, but we always came back to each other.

Heather seemed like a woman who could handle us. Restless, I tapped my hand on the arm of the chair. I hardly knew her. Was there actually a need for me to weigh how well she would or wouldn’t fit in with my family?

I stood and retrieved a blanket from her bed, laying it over her as she slept. Even sick as she was, there was something about her I couldn’t resist. I didn’t belong there—but taking care of her felt right.

For just a moment, after I’d brushed her hair, I’d forgotten how sick she was and almost kissed her. Crazy. Impulsive in a way that didn’t fit my personality.

And carrying her, I’d done it the first time out of real concern and the second time simply because she’d felt good in my arms. I settled back into the chair beside where Heather slept and decided I would give this—whatever this was—a chance.

Even if it meant I might not hear the end of it from my mother if it worked out. She already thought this woman was damn near perfect.

No one was, though.

Heather had shared that she’d never known her mother. That couldn’t have been easy for her. Was her father dead? Did he live too far away to have been able to come care for her? No distance would have kept my own father from my side had I been in need.

With that thought fresh in my head, I sent a text to my father with a quick update that Heather seemed past the worst of it and was sleeping. No need to respond. Talk to you tomorrow.

I settled myself deeper in the chair and remembered that Heather had said she’d lost someone too. Had she been referring to her mother? Ava was adopted—had she been close to her biological parents?

There was so much I wanted to know about her.

She had her own business. What did she do? Was it a source of enjoyment for her or something she endured to support herself and Ava?

Her home was comfortably furnished and in a nice, suburban neighborhood. Whatever her occupation, she was good enough at it to make a decent income.

Independent.

Proud.

Says it as it is.

Not afraid to share she’d had fantasies about being with me.

Sexy as hell.

I closed my eyes and imagined how differently that night would have gone if she’d felt better and had waited to take a shower. It was a thought that had me smiling and forgetting how uncomfortable the chair was as I slipped into a light sleep.

The sky was still dark when the sound of Heather moving around woke me. Her blanket had fallen to the floor beside her, and her top had ridden up to reveal a delicate rib cage. Women revealed a hell of a lot more out in public, but that unexpected flash of skin was enough to fill my mind with all sorts of activities she wasn’t healthy enough for yet.

I smiled as I remembered when Gian had first discovered how to surf the internet unfiltered by parental controls and had come to me with what he’d considered a serious question. I was twenty-seven at the time; he was eight. He’d just read an article that said men thought about sex eight thousand times a day and wanted to know if that was going to happen to him.

“Sounds about right,” I’d joked.

He’d been horrified.

I made a mental note to bring that up the next time he gave me grief about something. A smart brother kept an arsenal of shit like that.

Eight thousand times?

There were only one thousand four hundred and forty minutes in a day. So what was that? One sexual thought about every ten seconds or so? That might be true of a teenager, but no man would ever get anything done if he only existed in that state.