Happily Letter After(63)

“I totally forgot about that! She told Santa she wanted one of those in her early letters.”

Sebastian shook his head.

“What about you? What nationality are you?”

“My grandparents were from Sicily on my dad’s side, and my mother was Welsh.” Sebastian fished a piece of sesame chicken from his cardboard container and went to put it into his mouth. Halfway there, he fumbled, and the chicken landed on his abs. He picked it off using his chopsticks. “Must be because I’m not four percent Chinese.”

I smiled. “Do you sing in the shower?”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “That’s an odd question to ask.”

I shrugged. “Maybe. But I think people’s shower habits tell a lot about them. Like if you’re in and out in five minutes, racing through the washing to get done, or whether you take your time and use your shampoo bottle as a mic when the mood strikes.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever used the shampoo bottle as a microphone. But I definitely whistle sometimes.” His face fell. “At least I used to.”

I set my container on the nightstand and then plucked Sebastian’s from his hands and placed his lunch next to mine. Crawling over, I straddled his lap. “I think we can get you back to whistling in the shower.”

He brushed hair from my face. “I think so, too. You make me feel happier than I have in a long time, Gretchen.”

I rubbed my nose with his. “Danke.”

It was another half hour before Sebastian and I got back to the Chinese food. We were just destined to eat it cold. But I couldn’t care less. Playing cowgirl on my handsome boyfriend’s lap beat warm food any day of the week.

After, we showered together, and Sebastian had to get ready to leave for the restaurant.

“What are you doing tonight?” He kissed the top of my head while I sat at my vanity brushing out my wet hair. “Any plans?”

“Actually, I have a hot date.”

I watched Sebastian’s face fall in the mirror. Shit.

“Gah! It’s not what you’re thinking. I meant I was going out to dinner with my dad.”

He squinted at my reflection in the mirror. “Not funny. Considering your job.”

I stood and pushed up on my tippy-toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

He finished buttoning his shirt. “Where are you going for dinner?”

“I’m not sure. We usually decide when he gets here.”

“Why don’t you come to the restaurant?”

I blinked a few times. “Really? You wouldn’t mind meeting my dad?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Why would I mind? You’re already one of my daughter’s favorite people.”

Warmth spread throughout my chest. Being with a mature man really made the men I’d dated over the last—oh, I don’t know—ten years seem like such little boys. Sebastian wasn’t afraid to meet my family and had welcomed me into his once he gave in to his feelings.

“I’d love that. I’ll have to see if Dad already had his heart set on something else. But maybe we’ll come.”

“Sounds good.”

I walked Sebastian to the door. “Thanks for . . . lunch.”

He kissed me one more time, then grazed his thumb along my bottom lip. “Thanks for not giving up on me when you probably should’ve.”



“So you’re serious about this guy?”

Dad picked up the folded napkin from the table and shook it out, laying it across his lap.

I looked over his shoulder. Sebastian had just gone to get us a bottle of wine from the bar. He winked from the other side of the room when he caught me watching him. I smiled and sighed. “I’m crazy about him, Dad.”

“Then I guess I better get to know the fellow a little bit.”

On the way to the restaurant, I’d filled Dad in on some of the story behind Sebastian and my getting together. He hadn’t actually said much, so I wasn’t sure what he was thinking. But that was Dad’s way. Sometimes I would swear he wasn’t even paying attention when I talked. Then a few weeks later, he’d surprise me by asking a follow-up question to some minor thing I’d casually mentioned. Dad was a listener more than a talker.

Sebastian came back with a bottle of merlot and opened it table-side.

Dad glanced around. “It’s pretty busy. Think you’ll have time to join us? I’d like to get to know the man who my daughter is spending time with. How old are you?”

“Dad,” I scolded. “Sebastian is working.”

Sebastian waved me off with an easy smile. “I’m just going to check on things in the kitchen and put in an order for you, and then I should have some time.” He turned to my dad. “Is there anything you don’t like to eat or are allergic to?”

My dad patted the little belly he’d developed over the last few years. “Does it look like there’s much I don’t eat?”

“Okay. Give me about ten minutes. When I come back, I’m all yours to interrogate, sir.”

My father seemed to like that response, but I was embarrassed. As soon as Sebastian walked away, I said, “Dad, what the heck?”

“What?”

“Sebastian invited us here and is going out of his way and you say, ‘Hey, nice to meet you . . . how old are you?’ What does it matter how old he is?”