Page 69 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show
Luke
“We made it!” I tumble from the taxi and blink into the Montreal sky.
“Wait! Be careful!” Sebastian hollers behind me.
I nod. It’s probably actually good to take a break. Good for relaxing.
Because even with all the painkillers, I hurt. I don’t want to focus on my pain. I want to focus on Sebastian. My heart warms when I think about him, even though I think there’s a reason why it’s not supposed to.
But he’s adorable in a way that makes me smile. I like seeing pink chase up his cheeks, until I feel bad and want to smooth it away and assure him that everything is wonderful. I like having him beside me and making sure he’s okay.
I liked watching him each week.
And now I can do it in person.
What’s not to like about that?
One of the hotel bellboys rushes to me. “Luggage?”
“Yep.” I nod multiple times, but Sebastian is already getting out of the car and explaining where everything is.
Light explodes around us, and my forehead furrows.
“Shit.”
“When did you pick up swearing?” I ask Sebastian.
Sebastian’s face pales, and I remember there’s a reason I don’t ask him about the past. It makes him sad, and I don’t want him to be sad.
Happy Sebastian is best.
Because he can be sad, but I want to ease away his pains. I’m here to help.
But what he says next is something I don’t expect.
“It’s a photographer.”
I swing around. “Cool! Where?”
“Don’t look,” Sebastian instructs, and I frown.
I’m not used to this bossy version of Sebastian, but then I snort. It’s kind of cool, actually. I’m sort of digging it. Definitely not the Sebastian I knew at Ashcove High, but then, I’m not the same guy I was back then either. We shouldn’t remain the teenagers we once were, after all. Not completely.
I giggle.
Sebastian says something hurriedly to the bellboy. “Let’s go, Luke.”
“Okay.” I walk toward the hotel, then pause. “Coming.”
“Just keeping a professional distance,” Sebastian calls behind. “Because I’m professional.”
“Okay, Mr. Professional.” I open the door for him, and he frowns, like I’m not supposed to do that, but the bellhop was occupied.
The camera flashes again, light exploding over the murky gray darkness, city lights keeping it from being truly dark, and Sebastian’s face becomes bland and passive, and he hurries inside.
A hotel receptionist comes toward us with some keys, clearly having been told to hasten the check-in process, and we’re soon on our way to our room, zooming in the marble elevator, then walking over the thick padded carpet.
“This is different from home,” I say, and Sebastian stiffens, and I remember he doesn’t like talking about home.
