Page 19 of The Sebastian Guarantee
He barreled up a trio of steps, burst through the door, and spied a smartly dressed man seated at a glass desk surrounded by a sea of creamy white walls with a cursiveMprinted in gold.
Gracefully, the man folded his hands. “Sebastian Cress?” he purred in a French accent.
“That’s me. I’m here to meet with the . . .” He glanced at his phone. It was a French word. Phoebe had studied French in high school. She’d know how to pronounce it. All he could do was hope he didn’t butcher the word. “TheMarieuseGroup,” he stated as an alert popped up. Five missed calls from Oscar. Then a text flashed on the screen.
WHERE ARE YOU, MAN? CALL ME!
What was going on with Oscar? It wasn’t like him to slide into all caps.
Sebastian looked up from his phone and offered the man at the desk a weak smile. He couldn’t bang out a text in front of this guy. It would be rude. The best he could do was ping Oscar his location. He tapped the icon, then turned off his phone.
The elegant man cleared his throat. “May I take your head covering?”
Sebastian stuffed his phone into his pocket and eyed the man. “Head covering?”
“Your helmet,” the man clarified, coming to his feet. “Might I say the color suits you?”
Shit!Sebastian reached up and tapped his fingertips against the hardened plastic. How could he have forgotten to take it off? First impressions mattered a hell of a lot, and he couldn’t screw this up.
Donning what he hoped was a pleasant expression and not the look of a deranged psychopath, he undid the chin strap and proceeded to inch the damned thing off, which was no easy endeavor. Had his brain swelled in the nineteen minutes it took to get there? He twisted and coaxed the hard plastic until . . .pop. He was free of the binding like an elephant emerging from an acorn.
He glanced at the helmet, then forced himself to project confidence—well, project as much confidence as a man could who’d rolled in with a hot pink dome molded to his noggin. He widened his stance, taking up more space—a full-on alpha move. “I’ll keep the helmet with me. It’s no trouble.”
The hint of a grin pulled at the corners of the man’s lips. “But of course.”
Sebastian couldn’t blame the guy for being amused. If he wasn’t so desperate, he’d be laughing about the helmet, too. But he had to exude strength and composure. That’s why he was there—to sell an image, personify a balanced life, and model success. He was there to be the poster guy for what people aspired to be. There was about to be a hell of a lot of fake-it-before-you-make-it. But that was okay. It was part of the process.
“This way, Monsieur Cress.” The Frenchman led him down an ivory hallway decked with chic modern art on the walls and brass light fixtures adorned with crystals.
So far, so good. This Marieuse Group appeared to be the real deal.
“Through there.” The man gestured to a frosted glass door with Claudette Marieuse and Bernadette Marieuse printed in swooping gold letters.
He nodded to the man and watched him head back to his desk.
This was it.
Sebastian smoothed his shirt, then slipped his hand into his pocket. He brushed his fingertips against the watch and the stone, gleaning their energy. “Manifest success. Trust that what’s meant to be will be,” he whispered to himself when his belly growled.
Dammit!Maybe he should have eaten a bug.
Stop screwing around.
He inhaled a cleansing breath, willed his empty stomach to shut the hell up, then opened the door. The room mirrored the chic white décor of the hallway. Two women, who looked to be in their forties or early fifties, sat at the end of a long rectangular table. He blinked. He wasn’t sure he could believe his eyes. Was he seeing double thanks to shit sleep and a raging hangover? No, he wasn’t. The women were identical twins. Dressed in matching black blouses with their dark hair piled on top of their heads in tight buns, the women had a Prima Ballerina don’t-mess-with-me air about them. A young woman dressed in white with her dark hair in the same style stood in the corner with a cell phone pressed to her ear.
“Sebastian, please, come in. I’m Claudette, and this is my sister, Bernadette. Welcome to the Marieuse Group,” the woman said in a breathy French accent.
This had to be a good sign. His aunts were identical twins. They were married to Mibby’s brothers, who were also identical twins. He had a strong connection to the twins in his life.
Okay, universe, this was promising.
Bernadette made eye contact with the lady in white, and the young woman nodded.
Bernadette flicked her gaze to him. “Why should we invest in you? What sets you apart, Sebastian Cress?”
Diving right to business. That was another positive development. Not to mention, while Claudette and Bernadette weren’t smiling ear to ear, these women didn’t glare at him like he was a misogynistic wanker who enjoyed making twelve-year-old girls cry. Maybe they hadn’t seen the unflattering coverage.
Look at that—another boost from the universe.
