by Elise Faber
She’d taken a risk and been burned.
Rachel had been celibate for so long and even before that, sex had been a control tactic for her soon-to-be ex, for her grandparents. They’d controlled what she’d read, watched, even what she’d worn, and the slightest hint of cleavage or a shortened hemline had invoked all types of lectures about her fall into whore-dom.
There had been no personal expression.
And then Preston.
God. He’d seemed like her savior at first. So charming, so sweet. Oh, there had been many red flags, but she’d been desperate to get away from her father, from her grandparents.
She’d jumped from the pan into the fire.
He’d controlled it all and even with sex he’d decided when and where, how long, whether or not he’d bring her pleasure or . . . well, if there would be pain instead.
But that had been the past and she’d been determined to move on. So, when Bec and Sera had invited her to meet up with them for a drink at Bobby’s, owned by Heather’s brother, who was aptly named, Bobby, she’d gone when normally she wouldn’t have.
Bobby’s had two rooms—a back bar area for the “older” crowd and a front space filled with the youngsters. Her gorgeous friends had been inundated the moment they’d stepped into that first room. Of course they had, Sera was stunningly beautiful and too kind to reject even the creepiest soul, but Bec had stayed by Sera’s side, de facto wingman, and had waved Rachel into the back room.
Which was where the really cool kids hung out.
Or at least where she and her posse of grown women who laughed at inappropriate jokes like twelve-year-olds and teased each other relentlessly tended to congregate.
He’d been there that night, sitting on a stool pulled close to the worn wooden bar, a glass with amber liquid in his hand.
And for some reason—okay, because he’d drawn her in even then—she hadn’t gone into the Sextant’s usual booth.
She sat at the bar.
“God no,” he said and she snapped out of her memories and scrambled to remember what they’d been talking about.
He’d asked and then she had—
Oh. She’d asked if he enjoyed being Clay’s assistant.
“I like Clay, a lot,” he said. “And I don’t mind the role for now. He’s taught me so much. But”—he sighed—“I want to be doing more, you know? Find something that I can really sink my teeth into.”
It was the sigh that did her in. He just looked so earnest yet unsure that her heart went full squish.
He was sweet. He was one of the good ones.
She stood and crossed to the front of her desk, leaning back against it. A lock of his blond hair had fallen across his forehead and her fingers itched to push it back into line.
Instead, she said, “You want something that isn’t flight schedules and hotel points?”
He watched her, blue-gray eyes as soft as her heart felt. There was something about this man, about them together that just made sense. Like they were old souls or reincarnated, or lovers in a former, okay, in this life.
But draw or not, attraction or not, one glorious night of multiple orgasms or not, she was married—
Excuse.
Fine. Almost not married.
It didn’t make a difference. She was damaged goods. Rachel had a past that made her, if not suspicious of the opposite sex, then at least not open to a relationship with one.
Yes, there were good men out there—Jordan, Clay, Colin, and despite his disappearing act, even Sebastian—but she . . .
She what?
Didn’t deserve one?
That was bullshit.
Everyone deserved to feel safe and loved and cared for.
But . . .
Her throat tightened.
No one had ever really loved her. What if there was something, not wrong exactly, but what if she was broken or missing something that normal people had?
Or what if she was just unlovable?
Fingers on her cheek made her jump.
“I’m going to kill him.”
Her eyes flashed open.
Sebastian was on his feet, expression furious.
She almost did it, almost scuttled backward in fear.
But then she remembered his poem and somehow, somehow, her mouth curved up into a smile. “I am man, hear me roar. The only thing I fear is your dirty, dirty underwear.” She bent over, ridiculous, inappropriate laughter bursting out of her.
Bas wouldn’t hit her.
She didn’t know how she knew, just that deep down in her heart of hearts, she understood that he was one of the good ones.
But then she remembered what he’d said.
She straightened. “You’re going to kill who?”
Guilt swept across his face.
Wobbly legs took her around her desk, managed to line her ass up with her chair before they gave way. The cushion of cool leather did nothing to calm her temper.
“Sebastian Scott, you did not background check me.”
EIGHT
SEBASTIAN
* * *
OKAY, so he’d fucked up.
Sebastian winced. “It’s not like you think—” he began.
“So, you didn’t background check me?” Rachel stood again, hands plunking onto her desk as she leaned toward him.
Pink colored her cheeks and those brown eyes had darkened to espresso.
Fury absolutely radiated through every line of her body.
It was a beautiful thing to witness.
If only he hadn’t been the one on the receiving end of that death glare.
“Well . . .” He hesitated.
“That’s not a no,” she gritted out and straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. The motion plumped her breasts and drew his gaze. Literally, he couldn’t not look there. “When did you—” She snapped her fingers. “Eyes up here, Sebastian.”
He blinked but dutifully raised his gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said, already sad about the fact that she stopped calling him Bas.
“For what?” she asked, lips pressed together. “For the background check or the inappropriate looking?”
“There isn’t really a good way for me to answer that question.” He rose to his feet, crossing around the desk to stand next to her. “You’re beautiful, and I think I made it clear that I wouldn’t turn down another night with you.”
Rachel’s chin lifted. “I thought I made it clear that I would.”
“Ouch.” Sebastian risked touching her shoulder, a gentle brush of his fingers that was as much of an apology as his words. “I shouldn’t have done the background check. I knew it was wrong, but I still did it anyway.”
She retreated a step. “So why?”
“Because you said you’d been married and then behind the house . . .” He clenched his hands into fists, wanting to reach for her, to tug her close and hold her tight, to make her ex a distant memory.
And he didn’t have that right.
So, he told the truth instead. “I was worried that you were still in danger.”
There. He’d said it, and if she were still mad at him about the invasion of privacy, then he’d accept her rage as well earned.
But Rachel didn’t get mad.
Nope. She burst into tears.
She bent in half and sobs wracked her body. And finally, Sebastian didn’t think any longer, didn’t resist. Instead, he crouched down and pulled her close. He sank to the floor and rested back against her desk, holding her tight as she cried.
“Aw, baby,” he murmured. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry I did that. It was wrong of me. But you also don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Your ex is a disgusting excuse for a human being who deserves to have his entrails torn from his body and—”
She sniffed and shook her head. Her sobs changed to slightly hysterical laughter. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I just—I had the inappropriate thought that you’ve been watching too much Game of Thrones.”
His lips twitched and he l
eaned back enough to meet her eyes, to wipe the tears trailing down her cheeks. “I really am sorry.”
Rachel bent and wiped her face on his shirt.
He grimaced but figured it was penance for his overstep.
“Oh damn,” she muttered, straightening again and wincing at the wet spot on his button-down. “Sorry. I didn’t think. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning. I—”
“It’s fine,” he told her. Snot aside, he kind of liked that she wasn’t thinking about her interactions with him, that she was just reacting. “I didn’t like this shirt anyway.”
She snorted.
“Are you—” Sebastian hesitated to bring up the background again but figured it was best for both of them to clear the air completely. “Are you okay with . . .?”
She sighed. “I wasn’t—I’m not crying because of the check. Or, I guess I am. I mean . . . I am pissed about that. But”—she tilted her head up toward the ceiling—“I guess I’m crying because no one has ever cared that I was in danger before.”
His brows pulled together.
“It wasn’t just my ex who was abusive. It was my dad, my grandparents.” When she glanced back down at him, her smile was fragile. “You don’t even know how big of a treasure trove of fucked up you’ve stumbled upon.”
“Rach—” he began when she pushed up from his lap.
“No.” She raised a hand when he reached for her. “Might as well make it clear, yeah? My mom left. My dad was a real asshole, but lucky for me only home for a few months out of the year. My paternal grandparents raised me and while they didn’t hit me like dear old Dad did, they managed to fuck my head up so much that I married Preston, thinking he was my safe way out.” A brittle laugh. “And Preston was worse than all of them combined, but I guess you already know that since you’ve seen the police reports.”
“Why—?” He clamped his mouth closed, knowing the question he’d been about to ask wasn’t fair in the least.
She guessed it anyway.
“Why didn’t I leave?” Rachel sighed and turned away from him, walking over to the windows that looked out onto San Francisco. “I’ve asked myself that a million times,” she said softly. “And I did leave at first. But I didn’t have a plan, and my grandparents wouldn’t take me in. I had a few friends, but I was scared to . . . it would be a lie if I said I didn’t go to them only because I was scared that Preston might hurt them. That was a concern, of course, but I didn’t go to them because I was ashamed.”
Sebastian carefully moved to her side. He didn’t touch her, not when she was holding herself so tightly that it seemed as if a feather could shatter her. “What could you possibly have to be ashamed about?” he asked as gently as he could.
Rage was flooding him, pulsing through every cell and nerve. He needed to punch something, to put his fist through a wall, to break something for no reason except to unleash this fury that was ripping him apart from the inside out.
But Rachel needed him calm, needed to excise this darkness that was bogging her down.
“Because I went back.” Her hands rose, and she adjusted the low ponytail gathering her hair at her nape. “Because I was weak. Because I didn’t report every time. Because I only did report him when I was forced to by the police.” She dropped her chin to her chest. “Not that it mattered. Preston’s father was an attorney in the DA’s office. Not easy to get charges to stick there, and things were always worse after one of those reports.”
Sebastian swallowed hard, trying to control himself, trying to make his expression placid so that when she looked at him, she didn’t fear him.
She couldn’t ever fear him.
“When nothing changed after that first report, I knew it was only a matter of time before he killed me. He was too strong, too violent. It was—” Silence then a long, slow breath. “I knew I had to get out and I had to go far. But Preston controlled everything—credit cards, cash, bank accounts—so it took a long time for me to save up enough money to leave. Still, eventually I did and so I picked the place that was pretty much the farthest from home and ran.”
Rachel rotated to face him, and her eyes were empty for a long moment. They were like those pictures, dead and disturbing and cold—
But then they warmed and she reached her hand up, cupping one side of his face.
“Thank you for being furious for me, Bas.”
And fuck, did that break his heart.
But it also leashed it . . . only to her.
NINE
RACHEL
* * *
WHOOMP, there it was.
She’d laid it all on the table, so let the man judge her or run far, far away.
That was the typical reaction when someone revealed the amount of emotional baggage she carried around, right?
But instead of running screaming out of the room, instead of calling her weak or stupid—when she struggled not to call herself those things—he placed his palm over hers, keeping her hand on his cheek.
“Confession.”
Her heart stopped.
Oh God, why did her heart stop? It had no business stopping like this, for a man, for a man’s touch.
Not for a woman like her, with her past.
One half of his mouth curved up. “I like it when you call me Bas.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I’ve never had a nickname before.” He shrugged, and the slightest bit of a flush might have colored the tops of her cheeks. “That was more of my brother’s specialty. Being cool enough to have a fun nickname that is.”
“Did you just counter my story of abuse with a lament about you missing out on a cool childhood nickname?”
He paled. “Shit. I didn’t mean it that—”
Rachel bit back a grin. “I was joking.”
Sebastian—Bas glared. “That is not funny.”
“So, I shouldn’t joke about the bad shit that’s happened in my life?”
Obviously, everything that had happened to her still hurt and, frankly, she often woke in a heart-pounding panic in the middle of the night, half-expecting to be back in that house of horror in Iowa, Preston bent over her, fists raised.
But she’d learned a lot from being lucky enough to make friends that she knew would stand by her, no matter what. Hell, she’d gone hat in hand to Bec months before, knowing that she couldn’t afford the other woman’s legal fees, but needing help when Preston had contested their divorce.
Bec hadn’t blinked an eye and she’d refused to accept anything more than a new pair of the cozy but ridiculously expensive pajamas they all adored wearing in payment for her services.
Rachel would have bought her a hundred pairs if her friend would have accepted them, but Bec hadn’t helped her for pajamas or money or even thanks.
She’d helped Rachel because they were friends.
Rachel had never been part of a group like the one she’d stumbled into after beginning to work for Heather. They’d accepted—okay, more like yanked—her into their fold and Abby, CeCe, Sera, Heather, and Bec had been nothing short of amazing. Loving, judgment-free, supportive, and . . .
They’d taught her how to laugh.
How to laugh at herself, her situation, her love life, or lack thereof.
And while she hadn’t burdened them all with the exact details of what had gone down during her childhood and her marriage to Preston—Bec aside, who’d needed to know everything for the divorce—they all knew that she’d left something pretty shitty back in Iowa and had been looking for a fresh start in California.
“I think you should do whatever you want to do,” Sebastian said, hand flexing over hers. He drew it over to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss on the center of her palm, then laced their fingers together at his side. “It’s your life, Rachel. All I want for you is to live it and be happy.”
She’d learned humor from her friends. They’d also shown her that sometimes life provided opportunities to leap, to live . . . to love. Her friends had grasped those chances, sometimes divi
ng fearlessly, other times tentatively tiptoeing in.
But they’d lived and found happiness.
And in that moment, Rachel thought that she could, too.
There was just one other thing, something she’d already assumed to understand, but also she needed to know for sure.
With all the mistakes she’d made with Preston, she needed the confirmation that her instincts about Sebastian were right. So she sent a mental plea to the universe, hoping that those assumptions were right and then asked, “Why did you leave that night?”
His cheeks went pink, and he grimaced. “An intern fucked up a deal.” He raised his hands, palms out, hurrying to add, “Not an excuse, at all. I know I should have woken you or at the very least I should have left a note.” Regret was laced into his words. “You don’t know how often over the last few months I’ve been kicking myself for not getting your number. Or hell, your name.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Clay likes things to move and move fast. I got word that things were going south with the deal and panicked. I booked it into the office and then on a plane to L.A.” He winced. “It wasn’t until I got everything sorted out and was heading home in the middle of the night that I remembered . . . I did go back to the hotel the next night, but you were gone. Unless you have something to tell me and you’re really into hairy dudes who answer the door in their briefs?”
Her heart squeezed even as her mind revolted against the image.
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “I should have led with that. I just . . . everything else.”
She nodded. “I get it, Bas.”
His relieved breath was loud. “I promise it won’t—”
She rose up on tiptoe and slanted her mouth across Sebastian’s.
He froze, pulled back. “No, sweetheart. You don’t have to do this.”
Moving so that her front was more fully against his, she said. “I thought you wanted me to live my life and be happy.”
“Yes, but . . . that doesn’t have to involve—”
“You?” she asked, brow raised. “But what if I want it to involve you? What if you’re the first person in my life who has cared what I want? What if I say that I lied before and that I’d like you to be my friend?”
