Page 74 of The Sebastian Guarantee
She wanted that, too. Did Seb?
“Pheebs?” he said softly, brushing the water from her cheeks—or were those tears?
She mustered a grin. “Yeah?”
He kissed the corner of her mouth. “This is a good thing.”
She tried to nod but couldn’t. “I’m not sure if it is, Sebby,” she replied, her voice barely a rasp. She couldn’t divulge her algorithm to just anyone—especially if she wasn’t crystal clear about how it worked. Not only that, she had an obligation to protect what she’d created and make sure it was used wisely and prudently. And what about Go Girl? That was her dream.
As if Sebastian could read her mind, he cupped her face in his hands. “I know you’ve had your heart set on promoting Go Girl with the investors. But the goal of the Sebastian Guarantee is to achieve success. That’s what I promised you, and you can have it. Investors are falling arse over elbow for you—and it’s happened while you were sleeping.”
Arse.
She would have pointed out his Brit slip if she wasn’t so conflicted.
“Can you give me a second in the bathroom to get ready? I need some time to sit with what’s happening.”
“You got it,” Sebastian answered. He turned off the shower, grabbed a fluffy white towel from a hook, and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I’ll be right outside.” He plucked a fresh towel from a stack, tied it around his waist, then grabbed his pack. “Do you need anything?”
She glanced around the bathroom. “My toiletries pouch. It’s in my bag. And maybe a few cookies and the chocolate milk. I could use some sustenance.”
“Coming up, Miss LETIS Diva,” he said over his shoulder, slipping out of the room.
She’d barely dried off when Sebastian was back. “Here’s your bag, blow-dryer, and the tray of goodies. And I’ve got a few more things.” He grabbed something off the bed. “I picked out an outfit for you. It’s mountain chic which will be perfect for this evening’s dinner. Zinger and Techy Times are throwing a barbecue on the patio,” he explained as he hung a rose-colored blouse and slim-fitting jeans on a towel rod before setting a pair of boots on the ground. “And I thought these would work, too.” He handed her a lacy bra and matching panties in fire-engine red. “Mara and Janelle really hooked you up.”
What was he? Her personal stylist?
“The clothes are great. I won’t be long,” she said, doing her best to remain upbeat.
Sebastian left, and she shut the door. She stared at the expensive lingerie in her hands and exhaled a pained breath. Her mind raced as she went through the motions of getting ready. What did she want? Should she embrace the interest in Munch Match? That was what Sebastian wanted her to do. And she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy being the focus of his complete attention. Did he feel the same way, or was he simply doing his job? There was a good chance her tender heart was seeing something that wasn’t there. And speaking of her tender heart, she still had to deal with Jeremy.
Time passed in a blur of teeth brushing, blow-drying, and makeup-applying. She sat on the edge of the bathtub, zipped up the stylish black leather boots, then stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself, first with her glasses on as regular Phoebe and then with them off as Phoebe 2.0.
Which was the real Phoebe?
The question hung in the air with the scent of the expensive lodge shampoo. She was about to put her glasses on when a muffled knock caught her attention. Had Sebastian left and accidentally locked himself out?
She opened the bathroom door and found Sebastian standing in front of it. She gasped, not expecting to find him lurking like a creeper. “Who’s at the door?”
“That’s got to be the LETIS mail,” he answered, sounding downright giddy.
“What is LETIS mail? Is it like email? Were we supposed to download a messaging app for the symposium?”
“No, it’s actual paper mail,” Sebastian said, leading her to the door. “They explained it at breakfast. I can’t believe I forgot to mention it. It’s this throwback thing they do. Investors fill out interest cards, which then get delivered to the room every day around four.”
He flung open the door, revealing a young man holding a stack of hunter-green envelopes.
“Phoebe Gale?” he said, meeting her gaze.
“Yes.”
“These are for you.” He handed her the stack.
There had to be ten envelopes, maybe more.
“Thank you,” she stammered, pressure building in her chest.
“And one more thing, Miss Gale,” the man said nervously.
