Page 59

Sebastian frowned. “Vaguely? I was eleven or twelve, I think.”

Julia nodded. “Aunt Virginia made all of the kids make a Christmas wish and write it down on a piece of paper. Aunt Stella was supposed to be your Secret Santa but ended up asking you to make another wish. Do you remember what your original wish was?”

Sebastian searched his memory but it was blank. “Nope.”

His sister smiled, a little amused and a lot sad. “You wanted epic love.” She chuckled. “I remember making fun of you for being such a girl.” She looked at him in the eye. “I wish you’d never met Mike.”

Sebastian swallowed and looked down at his hands. “I don’t know how it’s relevant.” He changed the subject and Julia let him, but before she left his room, she hugged him tightly, the way they hadn’t hugged in years, and said quietly, “Don’t let a past mistake or the fear of a future one ruin your life. Don’t let him win.” And then she was gone, leaving Sebastian with more questions and doubts.

Things had been weird even at work. He had taken to hiding whenever he crossed paths with Antonio. The Italian didn’t seem to understand why they couldn’t hook up again, and Sebastian didn’t know how to explain what he didn’t understand himself. He was a young, single man who loved sex. There was no reason for him not to have sex with Antonio—or with anyone else. So why the hell couldn’t he say yes to Antonio?

Because he felt taken.

It was ridiculous, it was messed up, it was only in his head, but he felt taken. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel Vlad’s hands on his hips, Vlad’s mouth on his inner thighs, sucking love bites into his skin, marking him up, his touch intimate and proprietary. He wanted to be Vlad’s—he, who had always rolled his eyes at possessive behavior and macho bullshit.

It was ridiculous. He wasn’t Vlad’s, and Vlad wasn’t his. The only thing they could have was friendship.

Sebastian repeated it to himself like a mantra as Vlad drove them to Stamford Bridge. He and Vlad in an enclosed space turned out to be a bad, bad idea. Sebastian found himself blabbering like a nervous teenager, trying not to stare at Vlad too much. If someone asked him what they were talking about, he would have no clue.

Christ, how was he supposed to be friends with this man? He couldn’t stop staring at Vlad’s strong, large hands on the steering wheel, and missing them, missing their touch. His lips tingled, missing Vlad’s lips. His body missed Vlad’s. Just thinking about kissing Vlad had Sebastian digging his fingers into his thigh to stop himself from reaching out and clinging to Vlad like a monkey in heat.

When they finally arrived, Sebastian couldn’t leave the car fast enough. They were let in through the staff entrance instead of waiting in the long queue to get into the stadium.

“I know the owner of Chelsea,” Vlad said with a shrug when Sebastian had asked.

Right. The owner of the club was Russian.

“Let’s go find out seats,” Vlad said, guiding him with a hand on Sebastian’s lower back.

It made Sebastian feel funny. He told himself not to be silly. Friends did that. It was no biggie, or at least it wasn’t supposed to be. Sebastian probably wasn’t supposed to feel the touch so acutely through his coat.

He was both relieved and disappointed when they reached their seats in the Matthew Harding Stand and Vlad dropped his hand.

“VIP tickets were sold out,” Vlad said.

“I’m glad they were,” Sebastian said, taking his seat and looking around excitedly. “Those VIP seats aren’t really my thing. I love the atmosphere here. I love sitting with hardcore fans who actually know and sing the songs, you know?”

“Are you a hardcore fan, then?” Vlad said, looking at him curiously.

Sebastian squirmed a little in his seat, trying to ignore the pleased little hum in his chest. It probably wasn’t healthy how much he liked having Vlad’s attention focused on him and only him.

“Since early childhood, but I don’t go to games as much as I used to,” he replied, watching the few empty seats around them fill quickly. The atmosphere was already amazing, the fans singing the teams’ songs as the players did pre-match warm-ups.

“Why not?” Vlad said.

Catching his lip between his teeth, Sebastian looked at him. “My face was pretty recognizable around here after I participated in a BBC documentary about homophobia in football. Obviously I’m not a football player, but I have friends in the closet who are. I spoke for them because they can’t speak for themselves.” He smiled wryly. “Most football fans probably didn’t appreciate it that I called them close-minded homophobic jerks. I got a huge backlash on Twitter for daring to say what everyone thought. It actually might be the reason the cult targeted me.” Sebastian glanced around, catching a few hostile glares, and fidgeted. “You probably don’t want to be seen with me here.”