Page 11 of The Sun & Her Burn

“Especially when your twin sister lives in England,” I concluded because the way he missed Cosima was evident in almost every letter we wrote to each other.

“Si,” he murmured, looking out the window without seeming to see the scenery. “I miss her very much. But we have all agreed to spend next Christmas there because Cosima was too pregnant to join us last month in New York City, and I was too busy with the release ofWaking Nightmareto visit. I had my manager clear my calendar so that I could spend some weeks there.”

I bit my lip as I considered asking the question that bloomed on my tongue, but I had never been a hesitant person, quite the opposite really, and now didn’t seem like the time to start. Not when I had Sebastian beside me for the first time in years.

The scent of him, rich and mouth-watering like something you could eat, filled the car like drug smoke, lowering my inhibitions.

“Is it hard to go back there? To England?”

The sound that came from him was a bitter little cough. “You could say that.”

“I haven’t been back,” I offered as I flicked on the signal to pull onto the I-10 East. “But I still see Wyndham sometimes. He comes out once a year to visit me.”

Beside me, Sebastian relaxed slightly. “I’m glad to hear that. Though I’m surprised you’re in LA. The way you spoke about Maui, I thought you’d never leave once you got home.”

Homesickness panged like a discordant note he’d plucked in my chest. My hands squeaked against the steering wheel as I gripped it too hard.

“I thought so, too,” I said with a breezy smile tossed over my shoulder. “But the City of Angels has some charm, too. The fashion alone is reason to be here.”

“Ah,” he exclaimed, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder warmly. The touch sent sparks of electricity showering down my spine. “Certo, this is why you are here. To pursue design!”

I winced. “Not exactly.”

Between taking care of Miranda, serving at Affaire Restaurant, and taking as many auditions as I could to supplement the rest, I did not have much time for design. Oh, I constantly carried around my sketchbook and pens, stopping at Mulholland Overlook on the way home from work at three in the morning to take inspiration from the night lights, or dashing off a loose design at dawn before I dove into the frothing surf with my board. But the illustrations of elaborate gowns, cocktail dresses, and lingerie I tended to gravitate towards were as useless as scattered leaves glued into the pages of a scrapbook left to decay over time.

Sebastian’s sun-gold eyes burned my skin as he studied me, but I refused to look over at him. One glance at that beautiful face filled with concern would unravel me completely, and I couldn’t afford that.

“I saw a photo of you and Savannah Richardson a while ago,” I said, cruelly turning the tables onto him once more so I wouldn’t have to talk about my pain. “I was surprised.”

“I think I am, too,” he admitted, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw so it rasped like sandpaper on wood. “Whenever I agree to see her. Nostalgia is a dangerous emotion.”

I hummed, reaching out without looking at him to pat his—rock hard—thigh. “Or a comforting one.”

“Yes,” he agreed, collecting my hand in his as if our friendship had always consisted of holding hands. “It is very good to see you again,trottolina.”

My hand spasmed in his at the use of the Italian nickname.

Little spinning top, it meant.

I could still remember the first time he’d called me that on our tourist date around London the night of the BAFTAs when I was just sixteen. Even though he was only three years older than me, there had always been something powerful about Sebastian Lombardi, an intensity of purpose and purity of passion that made him seem so much older, his aura highly addictive. That quality had only magnified itself in the intervening decade, and I found myself poorly equipped to deal with it.

We had barely started hanging out, and I was already dreading its inevitable end.

“I’m sure it is,” I teased with an impish grin that made him laugh. “I’m hard to forget.”

“Impossible,” he agreed, easily.

He was still holding my hand. In a way, I wasn’t even sure he knew he still held it, fiddling idly with my fingers.

It felt good, not just because he was ungodly levels of handsome, but because I didn’t get a lot of physical affection these days. Miranda could be sweet and docile sometimes, but mostly, she was either paranoid and angry or lucid enough to be rude and demanding. Even though I’d been in town for a year and a half, I hadn’t had the time to make many friends except for Rozhin, who worked with me at Affaire.

I was touch-starved and so lonely that my gut ached hollowly.

“Why do I get the sense you don’t want to tell me about your life? You have been very vague in your postcards, too,” he said quietly. “Do you think because I am famous or somecazzatethat I would judge you? You are my friend, Linnea. There is nothing about you that I would not try to understand.”

“How do you always know the right thing to say?” I asked, incredulous. “You could give Ted Talks if acting doesn’t work out for you.”

His smile was indulgent because he knew I was just dragging it out, hiding behind my snark. “I’ll keep that in mind.”