A flush crept up Harper’s neck, but she held his gaze steadily. “Ancient history.”
“It was maybe four hours ago.”
“Like I said. Ancient.”
They stared at each other across the kitchen island, and Sebastian realized with surprise that he didn’t want her to leave. Not yet.
He slid a perfect cappuccino across the marble surface.
“Sebastian,” she sighed, picking up the coffee. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?” he asked, though his voice lacked conviction. “I mean, we could just… keep this private. No one has to know.”
Harper shot him a look. “Yeah, right. We’re in the middle of a political fallout zone. A royal wedding is weeks away. If anyone evensuspectsthere’s something going on between us, it nukes everything—your credibility, my career, the story.”
Sebastian watched her, his expression unreadable. “I know all that.”
“Good,” she said, zipping her jeans with practiced precision. “Because we can’t do it again. Not now. Maybe not ever.”
There was a silence. A long one.
They looked at each other across the marble countertop, the weight of everything unspoken settling between them.
Sebastian set down his mug. “So, now what?”
Harper hesitated, then said more quietly, “Now we pretend none of this happened. Until we can afford for it to matter.”
“And if we never can?”
Harper looked at him then—really looked. “Then we’ll both regret it. Quietly. Like responsible adults.”
Sebastian smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fantastic. Love that for us.”
Harper’s smile tilted. “We’ll get through the wedding. After that… we’ll see.”
“And until then?” he asked.
She moved toward the door, finishing her coffee in one long sip. Then she turned back, just before leaving.
“Try not to look at me like that in public.”
“Like what?”
“Like you remember this.”
“Ugh,” Sebastian groaned. He leaned forward and put his head down on the countertop, forehead resting on the cool marble. “I just realized that I’m going to have to make it through an entire royal wedding, standing next to you, without thinking about last night.” He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. “You really do hate me, don’t you?”
Harper paused at the door, looking back at him one last time—rumpled and beautiful and dangerous to her peace of mind. It should have been easy to walk away. Instead, she looked back. “No,” she said softly. “I really don’t.”
She hesitated, then added, almost like a confession, “Besides… do you have any idea how good you look in a tux?”
Harper caught herself, shaking her head with a wry smile. “This is such a disaster.”
“It really is,” Sebastian said, and for the first time that morning, his smile was genuine.
39
Taking Care of Sarah