I wasn’t clear on what the truth was, though. Or if it mattered right this second. This thing between Seb and me was never going to be a big love story. I didn’t do love or emotional attachment. I’d tried that once and it wasn’t fun.
Sex was different. And Seb and I had proved we were good at it.
So no…I wasn’t going to take a photo and go home. I was going stick close to his side for a few days, see the city, and do all kinds of naughty things to that silver fox of mine.
Not mine, but…you know what I mean.
The family of five loitering near the elevator turned to stare at me as I stepped out and waved at Seb.
“I didn’t say I wasn’t interested, you know,” I said by way of greeting.
“Great. This way.”
I followed Seb through the chic lobby, noting the towering vases filled with red roses as we made our way outside. A cool breeze whistled through the flags affixed to the building across the quiet street. I tugged at the sleeves of my blue V-neck sweater and flashed an annoyed frown at him.
“Great? That’s all you have to say?”
Seb pulled his sunglasses from his pocket and smiled. “There’s nothing else to say, is there? The photographer is on your right near that round topiary.”
I squinted at the man loitering nearby. “Should we talk to him?”
“No, we’re not making conversation. We’ll just walk toward Piccadilly and through the park. That’s what I’m doing anyway. Like I said, you’re free to—”
“If you say jerk off one more time, I’m gonna be pissed,” I intercepted. “I’m coming with you. No pun intended.”
Seb narrowed his eyes and stepped into my space. “Do not take your crappy mood out on me. And don’t do me any fucking favors.”
“First of all, I’m not in a goddamn crappy mood, and who said anything about doing you a fuck favor?”
“A fuck favor?” He managed to look badass and sophisticated when he pushed his glasses on his nose. “I have to work while I have daylight. But since you’re jet-lagged and grumpy—”
“I’m not grumpy,” I protested grumpily.
“You could probably use the fresh air and a good walk. You can help me if you’d like. But be pleasant.”
“I’m a fucking ray of sunshine,” I lied, shoving my hands into my pockets.
Seb snorted. “Excellent. I’m looking for buildings for Baxter to scale or jump from, iconic sights to stage car chases, etcetera. Come this way.”
For the hundredth time since I met Sebastian Rourke, I fought that familiar dazed “Who am I and how did I get here?” sensation. Waltzing after my aristocratic older lover while a stranger snapped clandestine photos was…odd. Like I was an extra on a movie set where the main character was a cross between James Bond and the Mad Hatter.
It was hard to hold on to anger. I was too enthralled with this magnetic man. Seb the producer was relentlessly energetic and enthusiastic. The key word here was relentless. He didn’t stop moving. He marched us through Green Park and St. James Park, pointing out significant architecture as he tossed out action ideas for Baxter.
“I’m thinking about a car chase from Buckingham Palace where Xavier—he’s the bad guy—catches the curb and careens down the embankment, then speeds through the park at a breakneck speed. Can you see it here?” He paused in the middle of the pathway and spread his arms.
“What about the people? It’s kind of busy.”
Seb nodded. “They’d scatter. Picture umbrellas flying, city folk running for cover.”
“It’s raining in this hypothetical scenario?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You could always use the umbrella from an ice cream kiosk and send that flying,” I suggested.
“Good idea. Yes.”
“Xavier the evil could hit a British phone booth too.”
“Oh, I love that,” Seb pumped his fist enthusiastically. “There’s a phone booth by Big Ben. Let’s go.”
“Wait a sec. Don’t you have to follow the script?”
“Yes and no. I co-write the action sequences. It’s important to test them out.”
“If you hit a phone booth, you’ll end up in the British version of a pokey shit outta luck ’cause I still haven’t changed my dollars into pounds.”
Seb flashed his slow-moving sexy grin.
“So you do care,” he singsonged.
“Don’t push your luck.”
He chuckled as he dragged me along on a scavenger hunt where clues revealed themselves through “what if?” scenarios. What if Xavier wasn’t driving a car? What if he had a scooter instead? Where would he go after he hit the phone booth? Would he try to lose Baxter around Westminster Abbey or would he cross Westminster Bridge?
We quickly fell into a rhythm—leaning into each other as we spoke, navigating slower-moving pedestrians like synchronized skaters. We walked past Parliament and Big Ben, crossed the bridge to Southbank, and strode toward the Globe Theater and Tate Gallery. I wasn’t sure what the agenda was, and I didn’t care.