Page 11 of The Sun & Her Burn (Impossible Universe Trilogy #2)

ADAM

I was running for my life when the doorbell rang.

The thwack of my feet against the treadmill was thunderous, the mechanical whirr loud enough to drown out my thoughts. It was the only escape I had found in the last two disastrous weeks. Run, run, run until the demons fell back, and I was—momentarily—free.

Chaucer was worried about me even though she didn’t try to keep me from working out. There were worse outlets, we both knew, than spending too many hours in the gym.

The last time my life had fallen to pieces, I’d dived headfirst into a bottle of whiskey and hadn’t emerged for years.

So running was the lesser of many evils.

At least my trainer was pleased.

If I did end up getting the famous role of Anton Daventry, even after the gossip rags had exploded with new conjecture about my sexuality, I would need to be in the best shape of my life.

While I’d always been broad-shouldered and fit, the last few weeks had seen what remained of my body fat melt away to reveal the kind of muscle normally reserved for professional athletes.

Some of my shirts were too small, now, a problem Chaucer was happy to rectify by burning a hole in my credit card on Rodeo Drive in service of new clothes for me.

I was annoyed when the doorbell rang once, twice, three times, and then again, a few minutes later when I didn’t deign to answer.

I thought Chaucer was somewhere in the house, because I didn’t remember her leaving after she arrived that morning to check that I was still alive and sober.

Certainly, my live-in chef and cleaner, Bruce, was around somewhere.

So why the bloody hell wasn’t anyone answering the door?

I hit the stop button on the treadmill when the chiming bell sounded for the fourth time, muttering under my breath about lazy employees as I snatched the towel from one handle and used it to mop the worst of the sweat from my brow.

There was no helping my drenched quick-dry shirt, so I peeled it over my head and tucked it into the back of my shorts.

Whoever it was at my door had already been vetted by the guard at the gate from my list of approved visitors, or by Chaucer, who was rung whenever someone else wanted access.

I didn’t have to worry about modesty with the intruder, and I was too irritated by the interruption—and the general state of my life—to care as I stomped through the house to the foyer and wrenched open the oversized wooden door.

Nothing could have prepared me for the sight that awaited me on the other side.

It was like hitting an invisible force field. Every atom of my body was thrown against an immovable wall, then ricocheted back painfully, recoiling and freezing as if stasis would save me from the revelation of the guest who stood on my doorstep.

My system was overloaded by so many powerful emotions, it short-circuited.

I had not let myself feel so strongly in a decade.

Almost to the day I had last seen the man with the golden eyes staring at me calmly as if I wasn’t having an internal meltdown in front of him.

“Adam,” Sebastian Lombardi said, and oh fuck , the sound of my name in his mouth…a song that haunted my dreams and had me waking up with a gasp lodged in my throat, a painful hardon and heartache like a stab wound throbbing in my chest.

Adam , he said as if it had not been ten years since we spoke.

Adam , he said as if we could just…pick up where we left off. Best mates, lovers, the moon and his tides.

Of everything that had happened to me in the past two weeks, the threats of blackmail, the leak to the press about my sexuality, the offers falling through and execs not returning my calls, somehow this was the worst.

To be faced with the only thing you’d truly ever wanted and fucked up too badly to ever be worthy of having.

“Sebastian,” I said, like an echo, like I didn’t have a choice but to respond to the sound of my name in his mouth with his in mine.

A small, crooked smile bloomed across his face.

Jesus Christ, he was gorgeous. So much more so than he’d even been at eighteen.

A decade of living had hardened his exquisitely carved bone structure, packing more muscle onto that tall, broad-shouldered frame so his hips seemed even narrower and his legs endless in their tailored black denim.

That boyish charm had rubbed away to reveal a wicked magnetism that was honestly arresting.

I knew because staring at him, my heart stopped beating.

He didn’t mock me for my long silence or bewilderment.

If anything, he seemed to take advantage, his own gaze—those searing tiger yellow eyes—scouring every inch of my sweaty, naked chest and my bare legs beneath the athletic shorts I wore low on my hips.

When his stare found mine again, his lips ticked up even higher.

“You have silver,” he murmured, his accent just as thick, and God, I was grateful because nothing about that voice should ever change.

He reached forward for a moment as if he was going to touch me, and the thought sent electricity coursing through me so hard I jerked, as if flinching away from him.

His hand snapped back against his chest as if I’d hit him before slowly raising to touch above his own ear. “Just here. It’s handsome.”

I swallowed the sob that rose in my throat, and when that didn’t work, I swallowed again, so hard I almost choked.

We hadn’t spoken in ten years, and he tells me I’m handsome , I thought fuzzily.

It hurt, God, it hurt to know he was still so beautifully honest and unfiltered.

“Are you going to invite me in?” he asked with that same crooked smile, rocking back on his heels with his hands in his pockets.

He seemed almost bashful, which was hard to reconcile with the scenario I had created in my head over the years.

I always imagined if we saw each other again in a real way, alone with privacy, that Sebastian would rail at me, shouting and condemning me, rightly so, for the coward I had been back then.

How could you ruin both our lives? he would say.

I don’t know, I would answer, but I’ve regretted it every day since even though I don’t know what other option there could have been.

It was a self-serving fantasy, anyway. I felt he deserved to be at least half as angry with me as I was with myself, and in saying something like that, it might mean he still wasn’t over it.

Me.

That there was, in some fucked-up way, hope for us yet even after so many hurts and years later.

Without saying a word, because I didn’t know what the fuck to say, I stepped aside to let him into my house.

He stepped inside, immediately looking around and issuing a low whistle of approval at the view, which extended directly to the back wall of windows, offering a glimpse of the green cliff and the sun over the Pacific Ocean.

It was setting, spilling thick, syrupy light into the house and over Sebastian, so he looked gilded.

His eyes were pure, precious metal when they met mine.

“I like your house,” he said.

He’d seen about one inch of the seven-thousand-foot home, but that didn’t matter.

Not when I’d bought it seven years ago, thinking only of him standing in almost exactly that spot, bathed in sunlight, smiling at me.

For once in my life, I didn’t know what to say, all the words that needed to be spoken tangled in a mass at the back of my throat. So I just smoothed a hand through my sweaty hair and offered an anemic smile.

Sebastian nodded, as if that was an acceptable response. “It’s good to see you, Adam. The camera doesn’t do you justice. It never has.”

I blinked as shock rolled through me. “You still watch my films?”

Seb bit the edge of his grin and rocked back on his heels. “I never could resist watching you act. You do such a damn good job. I can pretend the man who broke my heart doesn’t even exist behind each character you play.”

For some reason, that struck me like a punch to the gut.

“Sebastian,” I said, but I didn't have anything tangible to follow it up with, and suddenly, I was tired again. So fucking tired. I scrubbed a hand over my face. “What are you doing here? How did you even get through the bloody gate?”

“Chaucer and I have stayed in touch,” he said easily.

Of course, they had. I’d never asked her, unable to bear the thought that we might only be one person removed. That if I was desperate enough, I could beg Chaucer to give me his number or tell me how to make things right.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” I said flatly.

Seb pursed then flattened his lips, and I was cruelly reminded how lovely his mouth was, pink and full against the inkiness of his stubble.

“Why don’t you offer me a drink? And you look like you could use some water,” he suggested, already moving through the house as if he were a frequent guest here.

Bemused, still struck faintly dumb by his presence in my home after so long, I trailed him. My eyes found his pert arse, flexing in that tailored denim, before I could find the will to wrench them away.

“Left,” I corrected when he made to move the other way.

“Ah,” he said, clapping his hands together when the kitchen came into view behind the long expanse of a comfortable living room. “My mama would embarrass herself over this kitchen.”

“My cook seems to enjoy it.”

Sebastian laughed, and it made my breath thin inside my lungs.

“You never were the chef, were you?” he asked, eyes sparkling as he opened the door to the fridge, peering over his shoulder at me.

I shrugged even though he’d turned back to rummage through the drink drawer.

He was quiet as he perused the selection of non-alcoholic beverages and chose one for both of us.

I waited as he slid the La Croix across the marble island toward me and watched as he cracked his own open, strong throat working around a sip.

Jesus Christ, what was he doing here?

This was both the worst and best thing that had happened to me in years.