Page 34 of The Sebastian Guarantee
It wasn’t a big deal that they’d shared her bed. She’d been having sleepovers with the guy since she was a girl. They spent their Christmases at his parents’ place in Rickety Rock. Despite being in their twenties, she, Seb, Oscar, and Aria still insisted on whipping out sleeping bags to bunk on the floor in the same room, pillow-fort style. Sleeping near each other hadn’t been anything more than best friends hanging out.
Except last night had been different.
Sure, she’d been drunk, but she wasn’t so far gone that she didn’t remember the last thing Sebby had said—no, guaranteed. Then again, it wasn’t as much what he’d said but how he’d said it. His whole demeanor had changed. He’d looked at her as if, by asking for his help, she’d held the keys to everything he’d ever wanted. The conviction in his gaze and the earnestness in his voice had left her breathless.
But that wasn’t the only thing she recalled.
Slowly, she sat up, put on her glasses, and peered at Sebastian’s backpack. It rested on the floor next to the clothes he’d worn yesterday. Her pulse kicked up as she slipped out of bed, then knelt near his stuff. As if she were being driven by an invisible force, she picked up his jeans, reached into the pocket, and removed three items. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling as she admired the pocket watch with his birth mother’s picture, the aquamarine stone Libby had given him, and a rolled-up ball of tinfoil. Breathless, she returned the stone and watch but kept the tiny silver ball. She rested her free hand on the ground, steadying herself as a light-headedness took over that, she was relatively sure, had nothing to do with her martini bender and everything to do with Sebastian eating her love-match hot dog.
Cross my hot-dog-loving heart and swear to die. The man who eats this love-match hot dog will be the person who’ll hold my heart in his hands.
A hot dog prophecy of sorts, she’d spoken those very words to Hank.
A sinking sensation set in. What did it mean that her best friend had devoured the very item that was supposed to point her in the direction of her love match? It couldn’t be Sebastian. She wouldn’t allow her mind to go there. He was her best friend, and she couldn’t—no, she wouldn’t—jeopardize their friendship. She couldn’t picture what her life would look like without him. Sure, he’d been hella MIA for the last six months, but there had to be a reason he’d spiraled into a playboy existence. Not to mention, thanks to their families being so close, he’d always be in her life. And yet, that dormant love seed buried deep within her yearned to findthe one.
She shook her head, banishing the ridiculous thought, and concentrated on the wadded-up metallic ball. Carefully, like an archeologist extracting a priceless artifact, she peeled back the wrapping and smoothed the silver foil on her lap. Rays of sunlight glinted off the surface. It was oddly beautiful. Overcome with emotion, her eyes welled with tears. What was going on with her?
“What’s going on with you, Pheebs?”
She shrieked and flicked her gaze to the doorway, finding Sebastian standing there.
Confusion marred his expression. “Phoebe, seriously, what are you doing?” Needless to say, he was confused. He’d caught her genuflecting in front of a square of tinfoil.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
How was she supposed to answer? She couldn’t say,hey there, BFF, I’m a little shaken. You polished off the hot dog meant for the man who’s supposed to adore me forever and ever like some bizarre reverse Cinderella situation where, instead of the shoe fitting Cinderella’s foot, the prince chowed down on the damsel’s mincemeat pie—or whatever they ate in a quasi-medieval Fairy Tale World.
Think, woman!What would be a non-weird explanation for him finding her like this? Wait, she was weird—super weird. Score a point for Team Awkward.
She picked up the foil, and like a total weirdo, licked it.
Sebastian’s eyes widened as confusion made way for full-on disbelief.
“Darn,” she lamented, feigning disappointment. “You’re probably wondering why I’m licking tinfoil?”
“That’s exactly what I’m wondering,” he replied, eyeing her closely.
She cleared her throat. “I wanted to see if there was any hot dog left on the wrapper or a bit of bun.”
“Pheebs, I don’t think you should be eating bits of hot dog that have been wadded up in somebody’s pocket for over twelve hours.”
She slapped a grin on her face, balled up the foil, and placed it back in the pocket. “Excellent tip. You’re already delivering on your Sebastian Guarantee. Man-eaters don’t lick used hot dog wrappers. Lesson learned. Suggestion noted,” she replied with a touch too much enthusiasm as she rose to her feet. “Look at that. Phoebe Gale 2.0, here I come.” She raised her fist in the air, widened her grin, and flashed her pearly whites, hoping Seb’s next action wasn’t making a call to request an urgent psychiatric intervention on her behalf.
But something was up with him. He had a brazenly self-satisfied air about him, and one of his hands was behind his back. What was he hiding?
“Drink this,” he directed, revealing a glass of green glop.
She gagged. There were the vegetables she’d smelled. “What in God’s name is in there?”
“Your Sebastian Guarantee breakfast,” he answered with his signature super-cocky and damned-endearing crooked grin.
She sniffed it, then retched again. “It smells—and looks—like wet moss doused in toad urine.”
“Aren’t you perceptive, Phoebe Gale,” he sang, clearly enjoying himself. “That’s what this is. And you should thank me for it. Do you know how hard it is to get a toad to hand over a vial of piss?”
She pinched her nostrils. “I’m not ingesting that.”
“I could always pour it on my torso and let you lick it off my abs because they’re oh so lickable—your words, not mine,” he shot back like a self-assured scoundrel.
