Page 17 of The Sebastian Guarantee
Shit.
Sebastian tugged at his collar. “I’m not drunk. I might have had a few drinks last night at the restaurant to take the edge off. But there’s nothing wrong with that. I wasn’t partying.”
Briggs didn’t reply.
Could the man have believed him?
Sebastian hoped he was in the clear. He’d nearly breathed a sigh of relief when his phone chimed with an incoming text. He stared at a picture of himself—a picture of himself seated at a table littered with empty shot glasses. That would be bad enough, but this photo caught him the moment some drunk chick plopped onto his lap for her friends to snap a pic.
He dropped his chin to his chest and closed his eyes.
Welcome home, Sebastian Cress. The world thinks you’re a playboy screw-up, and you’re not doing a hell of a lot to prove them wrong.
“You’ve got to make this meeting, Sebastian,” Briggs said, his tone sharpening. “My credibility is on the line just as much as yours, mate. I’ll send you the address.”
Sebastian opened his eyes as his phone pinged the location. He stared at the map on his screen. The appointment wasn’t far from Phoebe’s place. That had to be a good sign. He could pop in and see her after and, hopefully, share some good news. He could apologize for being a real prick these past six months. He pictured her smiling the smile that only graced her lips when he made her laugh. The smile that was for him and him alone.
“Sebastian,” Briggs clucked like an angry hen.
“Yeah,” he replied, pushing aside thoughts of Phoebe’s chestnut-colored hair and sparkling blue eyes. “I see the address, Briggsy. I’ll leave now.”
“And before I let you go, I should tell you there’s some good news—a possible backup plan.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I pulled some strings and snagged you an invitation to the Lifestyle Entertainment Technology and Innovation Symposium. Suppose things don’t go well at the meeting. In that case, the symposium will allow you to bump elbows with investors in a secluded environment. It’s being held at a luxury lodge in the mountains a few hours from Denver. It’s the real deal. Several start-ups and entrepreneurs have secured funding after attending. It’s your chance to show people who you really are. It starts tomorrow and runs through the weekend. Just don’t act like a—”
“Misogynistic wanker,” Sebastian lobbed back in his father’s cheeky accent.
Briggs chuckled. “I see we understand each other. Let’s hope thisLETISevent is everything people say it is. It wouldn’t hurt to have multiple investors partnering with you.”
Sebastian gasped as Briggs’s words penetrated his muddled brain. “Briggsy, are you talking about LETIS, spelledL-E-T-I-S?”
Phoebe had mentioned this event. He hadn’t even realized his life-coaching field could collide with her tech world. But they were both innovators in their respective fields.
“Brilliant, mate, you know it,” Briggs answered with a little less dread in his tone. “I’ll forward you the email with the details. And Sebastian?”
“Yeah, Briggs.”
For a beat, his PR agent remained silent. “You’re a good lad.”
Sebastian held his breath. “And?” he asked, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“And . . . I know things have been strained with your father. Just remember, he wants you to succeed, Sebby. He probably wants that more than anyone else.”
Sebastian swallowed hard. Briggs was right. His father loved him fiercely. He knew this with every fiber of his being. That’s why he had to make this work.
“I better get going. I don’t want to be late.” He paused. “Wait, there’s one more thing.” Sebastian pinched the bridge of his nose and paced the length of his room. “Thank you. I owe you, Briggs.”
“Bloody right you do. Now, don’t muck it up, lad,” Briggs replied, then ended the call.
Don’t muck it up should be his new motto.
Sebastian glanced at his bedside table. Knowing he could use all the positive juju he could get, he gathered the aquamarine stone and the watch with his mum’s picture and slipped the items into his pocket. He turned, trying to figure out what he needed, caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror attached to his dresser, and . .. yikes. He raked his fingers through his honey-brown hair, grateful he’d had it cut short. It might not look like a rat’s nest, but it also couldn’t hide his scratchy, red eyes. Decent hair. Bad eyes. Maybe they’d cancel each other out.
Forget about the negatives. Manifest positivity.
He schooled his expression. In the dim light, he peered at the man in front of him. At least he was dressed—wrinkled and slightly disheveled but dressed.
