Page 63 of The Moon & His Tides
I knew it.
But I was Italian, hot-blooded and probably too passionate for my own good.
So when I got into the town car to drive Savannah home, the words I spoke burned as they passed over my tongue.
“Who the hell was thatstronzo?”
“Sebastian,” she scolded coldly, checking her makeup in a little compact mirror. “Don’t speak to me like that.”
“Like what, a jealous lover?” I dared to retort, meeting her gaze briefly in the rearview mirror.
“This is hardly appropriate.”
“Because I’m just your lowly driver?”
“Don’t be soyoung. It’s unbecoming.”
“I’m eighteen, Savvy. Iamyoung. Is that beginning to wear on you? Is that why you kissed that man?”
“Sebastian, you can hardly call a kiss on the cheek anything lewd. You’re Italian for god’s sake. You kiss everyone on the cheek in greeting or parting.”
“Si, so I know I do not kiss my mama like that.”
I’d only seen Savannah roll her eyes once before, but she did it then in a manner that wasn’t at all playful. Snapping her compact closed, she stuffed it just a little too aggressively in her purse.
“You can’t just flip a switch on this thing between us when it’s convenient for you,” I said, my voice low and rough, dredged up from deep in my gut. “I’m not just your driver. I’m not just your… toy.”
“Sebastian,” she said again, this time on a sigh that softened her rigid posture and had her looking small against the black leather seats in all her neutral-toned finery. “I do not think of you as my toy.”
“Oh? Then tell me, I have been inside you nearly every day since I moved into your house. I’ve wiped your smudged makeup from your tired eyes after a vigorous fuck. I’ve eaten the sound of my name out of your beautiful mouth and stroked your hair until you’ve fallen asleep in my arms. How do you think of me? Because this stopped being a simple agreement almost the moment it began.”
“It’s more than sex if that’s what you’re implying,” she said stiffly, her entire posture defensive.
“Of course, it’s more than sex,” I said too loudly, my gloved fingers squeaking on the steering wheel with the force of my grip. “But you won’t give me anything about your past or how you truly feel about me. You’ll only give me honesty in the dark of your bedroom.”
Silence descended in the car, the quality of it static and uncomfortable against the skin. I could tell by her expression she was irritated and confused, and I wondered if anyone other than Adam had dared to speak to her so bluntly.
A small corner of my heart ached at the thought that I had pushed too far, but I refused to give in to the fear. She may have been older and in a position more powerful than my own, but that didn’t mean she inherently knew better than me.
When it came to matters of the heart, I was beginning to believe—despite my lack of experience and their years of it—I might actually know better than Savannah and Adam Meyers.
“His name is Tate Richardson,” she said after an interminable period of time. “He’s one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. It was just a business meeting.”
I swallowed thickly past the mass of questions lodged in my throat. Jealousy urged me to pry. Who is he to you? Why are you so close? What does he mean for you and Adam? For you and me?
I wasn’t blind.
It was obvious Savannah and Adam had problems in their marriage and had for longer than I’d been around to witness them. It wasn’t that they quarreled, necessarily, but from the beginning, I’d sensed a distance between them. It wasn’t natural, more than a dedicated barrier they’d erected from either side. As if they were afraid, even after years of marriage, to take the final plunge into intimacy together.
Even so, they seemed lighter now. They laughed together more often and seemed to delight in the time we spent as a threesome.
I thought Adam would say the same thing and felt momentarily shocked by the fury I felt on his behalf.
“Sebastian,” Savvy called softly just as the automatic gates slid open on her Chelsea estate. “Please don’t be cross with me. He’s just an old friend.”
I’d been raised by women and therefore taught to trust my intuition, and something about that encounter had just felt illicit. Savannah’s brief hesitation after had only underscored my suspicion.
But who was I to be the jealous lover? I was just the help.
