Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(95)

“Has that changed?”

It’s endearing, watching Sebastian—a man who’s normally so controlled and in charge—hesitantly probe in a way that he wouldn’t have before.

How has he not figured out that everything has changed for me, and it’s all because of him?

I answer by throwing a leg over his thighs to straddle him, my back to the ocean. Because I’d rather be looking at this man anyway. “Maybe.”

His eyes scan my face, settling on my lips, and I expect that he’s going to lean in and kiss me. But he suddenly scoops me up in his arms and trudges easily through the thick mounds of sand toward his car. I squeal like the kind of girls I mock.

“We should get home. Get some sleep.” His deep voice hums through my body, because I know we won’t be going to sleep immediately.

“When is your plumbing going to be fixed?” I’m desperate to see Sebastian’s home. To be surrounded by his things. To invade his life like he’s invaded mine.

“Don’t know yet. Soon.”

I groan. “Are you sure you don’t have a wife there?” That would be just my f*cking luck. I hate that I asked, but it’s beginning to drive me nuts.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Girlfriend?”

“None.”

“Boyfriend?”

He chuckles. “Trust me, after last night’s dinner, I’d rather be bringing you to my place than risk meeting another one of Dakota’s friends.” We reach the car and he sets me down, opening the door for me.

I climb in and watch him as he rounds the front, his raptor gaze scanning our surroundings.



When Sebastian told me we were going to his parents’ for Thanksgiving dinner, I remember being happy that he actually listened to me, and that this was a big step for him. I completely dismissed the reality that Sebastian’s parents would be meeting me.

And, most likely, judging me.

Normally I wouldn’t give a damn. But these are Sebastian’s parents.

I give a damn.

“So, on a scale of one to ten, how much do they hate tattooed women?” I ask, taking in the perfectly manicured little house before us, the American flag drifting ever so slightly in the cool fall breeze.

Sebastian’s eyes float over me from head to toe, settling on the black turtleneck I chose for today’s meeting. The temperatures allow for it, thank God; it’s only about fifty degrees out. “You look great.”

“Right. And you’re sure we shouldn’t have brought flowers or something?” Showing up at someone’s house for Thanksgiving dinner empty-handed feels like the wrong thing to do, even though I really have no experience in this sort of thing. Aside from meeting Jesse’s father—albeit years later, when he nearly arrested me—I’ve never actually met a guy’s parents.

“You’re nervous?”

“No,” I lie, smoothing my long hair down around my face to cover where I recently shaved the sides. They were getting too long and mangy.

“Well, don’t worry. It’ll be fine.” He sets his jaw, like he doesn’t really believe that.

He curls his fingers through mine, and then presses the doorbell. Moments later, footfalls sound on the other side and the door cracks open, and a small woman with a blond bob appears.

She gives her head a shake. “Sebastian?”

“Hey, Mom.”

She looks dazed for a moment. “Why didn’t you . . .” Her words drift off as she glances from him to me, to our clasped hands, to him again. And then she heaves a sigh and smiles. “Come in, please.”

I smile in return, though internally I’m frowning. Something’s off here. Did he not tell them that he was bringing a guest? I will kill him, if that’s the case.

We trail her inside, getting past the door so she can close it. The delicious smell of turkey wafts through the house and I inhale, savoring the scent. It’s an American tradition that my family never really picked up. Suddenly I feel like I’ve been missing out for twenty-five years.

“Mom, this is Ivy. Ivy, this is my mother, Mona.” He hasn’t let go of my hand yet.

I stick my free hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Right, yes.” She nods absently, taking it. “Come in. Come in.”

No. This goes beyond me.

A deep older, male voice sounds from somewhere in the house. “Is that those lawn care people again? They don’t know how to take no for an answer!”

“Uh . . . no,” Mona answers, a slight wobble to her voice. “It’s your son.”

Silence.

My hand grows clammy in Sebastian’s. He’s sweating. When I peer up at him, he offers me a brief, tight smile.

A chair creaks, and then, moments later, a graying man in tan slacks and a button-down shirt appears. He’s tall, like Sebastian, only much more slender. The same shocked expression sits on his face that appeared on his wife’s moments ago. “Sebastian.”

Sebastian releases my hand to offer his. “Sir.” He’s so serious, I half expect him to salute his own father.

After a long pause, and a nervous glance between the two from Mona, Sebastian’s dad takes it.

Sebastian turns to me. “This is Ivy Lee. Ivy, this is Captain George Riker.”