A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

The distance between the door and the desk seemed to have suddenly tripled. I started sweating under her scrutiny. You could hear a pin drop as I placed the tray on the desk. Sebastian caught my wrist as I turned to leave. “Stay––please.” His voice was soft…intimate. I stood frozen in place. My eyes darted to the redhead. There was an almost imperceptible lift of her elegant eyebrows, and then a bright, white smile stretched across her face.

“Longhorn, is this who’s been putting a smile on your face?”

Needless to say, my face burst into flames. Sebastian smiled reluctantly. He hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me closer. “Yes, and Buckeye, if you give me shit about this––”

She raised her hand as if swearing. “My lips are sealed.” Then she shoved her arm right under Sebastian’s nose and offered me an extended hand. I shook it. She had a very firm grip.

“It. Is. So. Nice. To meet you. I was getting so tired of the moping and the shitty moods. I was ready to start slipping some anti-depressants in his morning coffee. You came along just in time.”

Brazen, definitely brazen.

“Vera, Shay. Shay, Vera,” Sebastian said in an annoyed but-I-love-her anyway tone. “Try not to scare the living shit out of her in the first five minutes of meeting her,” he said to Shay.

“I’m not scaring her. The girl’s got grit, I can tell. She’s taken you on––that says more than enough about her.” I instantly adored her, especially for giving Sebastian a hard time. “Well, I’m going to get going. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” She gathered her purse and briefcase and walked around the desk. Throwing her arms around me, she engulfed me in a warm hug. “Thank you. Thank you, Vera, for making my life bearable again. I can’t wait to get to know you better.”

I looked over at Sebastian and resisted the impulse to laugh. His eyes were sulky, and yet he was fighting a grin too. And then she walked out with her hips swinging, and the faint scent of Givenchy’s Amarige following her out. He sat down and watched while I arranged his dinner on the desk, wisely remaining quiet.

“Are you still mad?”

“Of course, I’m still mad,” I snapped. “How could you do that to him? Shay seems wonderful by the way.”

“To him?! I walked in and found him undressing you with his eyes.”

“Sebastian, he is lonely… we were just talking. He’s been a complete gentleman since the day we met––unlike other individuals who shall remain nameless––and he’s your employee. He’s in no position to defend himself. He can’t lose this job. He has a daughter to support.” I crossed my arms like a sour Sunday schoolteacher. He had the good sense to look remorseful.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, grabbed my hand and played with my fingers.

“Your dinner is getting cold.”

“Stay with me while I eat.” It was beyond my capacity to deny this man anything. Only he could never know that. It scared me; the power he had over me. He wouldn’t let me pull away, so I half-sat on the corner of the desk and watched him take a bite of the salmon. “Where did you learn to cook like this?” he asked, smiling.

“I worked in a restaurant in Milan for six years. And at home, I had to cook otherwise I would’ve been forced to eat my father’s cooking,” I told him, wrinkling my nose.

“What’s Albanian cuisine like?”

“Pretty regular Mediterranean with a Turkish influence. Lots of vegetables, fish. Rather simple.”

“I really am sorry…about François. I lost it when I walked in and found him looking at you like that.”

He tossed his linen napkin over the empty dish. When I moved to grab the plate, he took hold of my wrist and gently pulled me in between his thighs. His touch disarmed me completely, dispelling the aftertaste of chagrin. I pushed the hair off his forehead, raking my short fingernails through it. Exhaling deeply, he wrapped his arms around my waist and placed his cheek over my heart.

“You can’t keep jumping to the worst possible conclusion every time some man speaks to me. And you seem to be under the false impression that I’m some sort of femme fatale.”

He looked up and searched my face while I continued to stroke his hair. “It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s them. And you’re too damn modest to understand what men see when they look at you…I love you and I…I…” He was editing his thoughts, keeping the words from spilling out.

“What is it, lover?”

“I have something for you.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a brand new iPhone, handing it to me.

I held it up and inspected it. “What’s this?”

“It’s called an iPhone. Nifty gadget. You can make calls, write text messages, even emails.”