Page 107 of Rule 2: Never Join a Christmas Dating Show

I raise my chin. I’ve been through worse. I’ve totally got this.

I walk around Luke and go for my things. It’s weird Troy didn’t mention them, but maybe the angle of the door prevented that.

“Sebastian...” Luke says. “You can’t go.”

I furrow my brow. “Of course, I can go.”

He closes his eyes. “You’re right. Of course, you can go. I’m sorry. I meant, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He extends his hand, and because I’m a fool for him and can’t help but give him anything he asks for, I find myself taking it.

He leads me to the bathroom, and I hate we can’t pretend nothing happened, that I was dignified, that this ended in optimal one night stand style.

We enter the bathroom, still hand in hand, and he grabs a washcloth and wets it.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say.

“Let me do this.”

I swallow back my anger and my tears. Instead, I nod. “Okay.”

He nods solemnly, and I guess I should be grateful he’s not doing victory dances or something. He rubs the washcloth over my face, eyes narrowed, making sure I’m taken care of.

“I didn’t want to tell Troy we were together,” he says finally.

I stiffen. Is he going to give me the whole I-was-feeling-experimental-but-I’m-really-straight speech? But of course, he is. I brace myself for the I-was-feeling-experimental-but-I’m-really-straight speech.

“I know you don’t know Troy well,” he continues, and this isn’t quite the angle I was expecting him to take that speech, so I find myself looking at him.

His eyes are large and considerate. “I didn’t want you to have to trust a stranger with our secret.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not the best improviser. Though I definitely appreciate the training Aisha and Ella have made me to be better. It’s, um, a definite skill set of its own. Not, of course that we’re here to talk aboutSeeking Mr. Right.”

He gives an awkward chuckle, the sound halting and grating in a way that none of his chuckles ever have been before. But he’s reminded me both that he’s intimately connected to my job, that he knows the names of my colleagues, in a way I’m pretty sure one-night stands typically don’t, and that a significant portion of the country already consider him to be Mr. Right. I’m not the person who is supposed to make him happy. So far today I’ve been the person making him anxious, something else I’m not supposed to make him.

Our private meetings and interviews were supposed to remove stress for him.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, and he furrows his brow.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.

I narrow my eyes. “You’re cleaning my face.”

“Because I was inconsiderate, not you.”

“You should be hockey-ing.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What does that entail?”

“Exercising, practicing stick handling or...”

“You handled my stick pretty well last night.”