Chapter Twelve
Then
“You’re crazy,” I whispered, attempting to tug my hand from Sebastian’s grip.
“Crazy for you,” he countered, leading me into his kitchen through the back patio door.
“You’re ridiculous.” I rolled my eyes.
“Ridiculously infatuated with you,” he revised, tugging me along behind him.
“Sebastian!” I protested. This was not a good idea.
“Lux!” he mimicked in a falsetto, towing me past gleaming stainless steel appliances.
“I hate you,” I whispered.
He spun around so fast I didn’t have time to react, and before I knew it I was pressed tightly between the countertop and Sebastian. His hard body dwarfed mine and I struggled to remain calm and collected, not wanting to reveal how much his closeness affected me. I felt my own inexperience rolling off me in waves of uncertainty, saturating the air around us. I clenched my clammy hands into fists, hoping he wouldn’t see through me. Praying he couldn’t tell that I’d never been this close to a guy before — besides Jamie, of course, but considering the fact that we shared nearly identical DNA, I wasn’t counting him.
Sebastian leaned down into my space, catching my eyes. Abruptly, he hitched his hands around my waist and lifted me so I was sitting propped on the countertop at eye level with him. I felt my lips part on an exhale as his hands skimmed lightly from my hipbones down to my kneecaps. Gently, he nudged my legs apart and stepped between them, so our bodies were flush against each other.
“You don’t hate me,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck as his head dropped forward to rest in the hollow between my chin and my shoulder blade. Acting on some deeply ingrained instinct, I arched my head back to give him better access. His lips trailed down my neck to my collarbone, and I shivered. “In fact,” he continued between butterfly kisses. “I’m pretty sure you lo—”
“Sebastian Michael Covington!” The smooth southern accent did nothing to detract from the outrage in the voice that pierced the air and interrupted our moment. We instantly sprang apart, Sebastian stepping fully out of my space as I scooted forward off the counter and landed roughly on my feet with a jolt that made my arches ache.
“Hey, Mom,” Sebastian said, casually lifting one hand to rub the back of his neck and grinning at the scandalized woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Though my fashion knowledge was limited to trips to Walmart and the local Goodwill, even I could tell that her clothing was designer. I found it strange that she was wearing both high heels and a set of pearls despite the fact that she didn’t work and likely had been home alone all day, but what did I know about the glamorous life of the rich? Her platinum blonde hair was coiffed elegantly, and it was clear where Sebastian had gotten his looks — Judith Covington had bone structure any model would kill for andstunning blue eyes that nailed me to the floor with a single glance.
My cheeks were probably as red as hers, though from embarrassment rather than stark disapproval. I smoothed my hands through my hair self-consciously and forced my shoulders not to curl in on themselves, never more aware of my second hand boots and threadbare jacket than I was at that moment.
“Hello, Mrs. Covington,” I said with as much grace as I could muster, stepping forward and offering her my hand. Her gaze moved away from her blatant appraisal of her son and she seemed to fully register my presence for the first time. Her eyes widened as she took me in. I wasn’t what she’d expected, that much was obvious — not like Amber, or any of the other girls who came from money and would’ve been considered a good match for her son. Ignoring my outstretched hand altogether, her gaze swept down my form, pausing to take in each minute detail of my attire. Her lips tightened, a crosshatching of stern lines appearing in the flesh around her mouth that no amount of Botox could remove.
It couldn’t beclearer that she disapproved.
“Mom, this is Lux,” Sebastian offered, wrapping an arm loosely around my shoulders. I wanted to shrug off his touch, uncomfortable under hismother’s hawk-like eyes. Not wanting her poisonous stare to ruin what had, until her arrival, been blossoming between us.
“It certainly is,” she murmured, her sharp focus lingering on Bash’s arm. Though the kitchen was warm, the air had become decidedly frosty since her arrival. “Sebastian, you know how I feel about having guests when the house isn’t tidy.Greta comes on Mondays and Fridays, you know.”
Tidy?
There wasn’t a dirty dish to be seen, and athree-course meal could’ve been eaten off the floors, they were so clean. Greta, who I assumed was their housekeeper, should definitely be getting a raise if she alone was keeping the mansion in this unblemished state. But of course, Mrs. Covington’s protests had nothing at all to do with the state of her home. Southern manners demanded a certain modicum of respect be paid to all houseguests, even to those one so blatantly disapproved of. And she’d been bred a political animal — as the wife of a politician, she couldn’t say what she really meant, which was likely something along the lines of,Get this trailer trash out of my house immediately.
In politics, image was everything. Propriety always reigned supreme. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be proper for a senator’s wife to demand that her perfect son remove the poor girl from both her presence and her pristine household, lest she soil something.
Like the furniture. Or the family name.
“Mom—” Bash began.
“Sebastian.” Her smile was arctic. I fought off a shiver. “Drive your…” Her beat of silence was timed impeccably — the work of a masterful conversationalist. “…friendhome now, please.”
I wanted to point out that adding the word “please” to the end of an order didn’t detract from the fact that it was, in actuality, still an order, but I figured that would only make a bad situation worse. With her ringing endorsement hanging in the air, she glided from the room, her heels clicking sharply against the gleaming hardwood floors.
“That went well,” I joked lightly, eyes averted. “I think she liked me.”
“Lux,” Sebastian said, sympathy threading his voice. “I’m sorry about her. I thought she’d be at Pilates or a DAR meeting or one of her afternoon activities. I had no idea she’d be here.”
“No worries,” I said breezily. “This is her home, she’s entitled to her opinions and decisions.”
“Well, her opinions are wrong,” he said, leaning in to wrap his arms around me. I tensed in response, wary of his mother’s disapproving eyes. “Relax,” he whispered.