Page 23 of The Sun & Her Burn (Impossible Universe Trilogy #2)
SEBASTIAN
I had started to check the tabloids and gossip sites each morning to see what the media was saying about Adam.
To see if my plan was working.
The morning after we went skydiving, a trending photo appeared on social media and was plastered across Hollywood news outlets.
Linnea held aloft in Adam’s arms in the middle of a grass field in black jumpsuits, their golden heads the same shade as the dried stalks waving in the breeze around them.
They were both smiling, foreheads pressed tight together, but their expressions weren’t for public consumption.
They weren’t forced grins after a stilted dinner at some celebrity hotspot like Spago or carefully constructed poses for the red carpet.
It was a real moment of pure, quiet joy between two people.
The public was eating it up with a spoon.
Adam and Linnea continued to feed them by going out five times over the next ten days.
I knew, both from the reports and from Linnea, who texted me daily, that they had gone for a hike in Runyon Canyon, to brunch at République, for a walk along Zuma Beach, and twice to shop on Rodeo Drive.
Adam bought her a straw hat from Dior when she started to get a sunburn, and the paparazzi captured the moment he took it out of the bag to place it on her head.
Most of the commentary was positive, especially surrounding Adam.
People loved him in his films, and they wanted to see him happy in real life, even if it wasn’t with them.
A few said it was fake and a few more said Linnea Kai, daughter of washed-up actress-turned-socialite Miranda Hildebrand, was a hussy.
A downgrade from Hollywood elite, Savannah Richardson.
But mostly it was good news.
So why did it make me feel sick to my stomach?
My plan to save Adam and help Linnea was set, both of them in agreement even if it had taken some convincing. If yesterday was any example, they seemed to be getting along well, and the media already had a couple name for them now that they knew who ‘mystery girl’ was.
Linam .
This is what I lived for, to help my loved ones find happiness, and this arrangement would solve so many problems for both of them.
So why did I have a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as I drove to pick up Linnea for our morning surf at Topanga Beach?
I pulled up to the cheery yellow house with something like dread in my stomach because I couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like if this were a date.
What if I had been selfish enough to keep Linnea to myself?
What if I had been cruel enough to make her fall in love with me when I was unsure I would ever be free of the sticky tendrils of a love that had snared my heart in its web at eighteen?
Because I honestly believed Linnea could fall in love with me.
We had been friends for years because we shared many of the same passions—film, fashion, good food, adventure—and there was no denying there was chemistry between us. A crackling energy I felt like a lightning strike every time I looked at her.
It happened then, as the front door swung open to reveal her in a tiny yellow polka-dot bikini and a crocheted white mini dress thrown on over top.
I knew without asking she had made the dress herself because I’d seen the bundles of yarn when she’d given me a tour of the house the other day, a half-finished blanket for Miranda pooled in one corner.
She wore a different set of rings today, always swapping them out to match her outfit.
Today, they were chunky silver with the odd piece of turquoise and yellow jade.
They clinked as she lifted her fingers to push her thick hair out of her face, blowing an errant piece off her lip-glossed mouth at the same time.
“Sebastian,” she said breathily as if she’d run to the door. Her chest heaved dangerously beneath the tiny yellow triangles, and I tried valiantly not to watch. “Sorry, would you mind coming in for a moment? I’m almost finished with this dress, and I need it for my date with Adam tonight.”
I nodded, but she was already moving down the hall back toward her studio.
She hadn’t noticed what I held in my hands, which, I was discovering, was a lot like her. Just as she had been as a teenager, Linnea was always moving, twirling, hustling.
Trottolina , my little spinning top.
I closed the door behind me and wandered into the living room to see Miranda sitting in her usual chair and a middle-aged woman occupying a spot on the loveseat as they both watched General Hospital .
“Clark,” Miranda said the moment she saw me, opening her hands for the flowers I carried. “Good, the other ones need to be thrown out.”
I bent to press a kiss to each of her papery cheeks. It still astounded me that a woman in her early fifties could look so fragile, especially one who used to be as bold and beautiful as Miranda.
“It’s good to see you, bella ,” I told her.
She grinned, then shot the other woman a haughty look. “This is my Clark, Luiza.”
“Hello, Luiza,” I greeted her with a wink.
The woman stared at me, unimpressed. “Hello.”
Miranda snickered. “Don’t be offended, Luiza Ramirez doesn’t go gah-gah over celebrities the way normal people do. The only one she likes is Adam Meyers.”
I had to roll my smile between my teeth at the news.
“Understandable,” I said solemnly.
Luiza sniffed and lifted the remote to turn up the volume on the television.
I coughed to cover my laughter.
It wasn’t every day someone tried to get rid of me.
“Sebastian?” Linnea’s voice called out.
“Ladies,” I said by way of goodbye and went to find the woman I could not stop thinking about.
She was in her studio, kneeling at the base of a mannequin that wore a muted leopard print dress with thin straps and an almost corseted top.
It was beautiful, especially when I considered Linnea modelling it herself.
She was finishing the hem, a needle in the side of her mouth, another darting quicksilver fast in her nimble fingers.
I left her to it for a moment and took the chance to look at the sketches on the walls, the brightly coloured outfits she envisioned.
There were ball gowns and party dresses, a few more casual dresses, and lots of lingerie.
The delicate designs were so complicated, I couldn’t believe she would construct them herself until I came across a few samples on one cluttered table in the corner.
I lifted a white corset with yellow fabric gathered like petals around the breasts and felt my throat click as I swallowed dryly.
“I’m constantly drawn to the feminine,” she said by way of explanation.
I turned to see her standing up so she could remove the dress from the mannequin.
“It’s why I mostly make lingerie and dresses,” she continued. “I think there is something so inherently sexy and powerful about being a woman, and I love to emphasize that.”
“There is,” I agreed, a little hoarser than usual.
“Maybe it’s because I grew up in a house of men,” she said on a little laugh, pausing to smile at the memories.
“They were so dirty and plain, I started carving out little female places for myself in the house. My room growing up was fuchsia pink, and the first dress I made when I was six was rainbow print. Hopefully, my designs are a little more elevated now.”
“Your designs are beautiful, trottolina ,” I told her soberly so she would understand the truth of it.
She beamed at me, tugging on the end of one little braid. “Yeah?”
“ Si, certo ,” I repeated in Italian for emphasis.
“Thank you,” she said with a shy smile I had never seen before. “It’s more of a hobby than anything, but it keeps me sane at night when I can’t sleep and everything seems so impossible.”
“If you wear your designs out with Adam, it won’t be a hobby much longer if you don’t want it to be,” I told her.
She blinked as if she hadn’t realized that.
“Oh, well…huh. I don’t think I have time to act and start a fashion line.
” She laughed, shaking her head as if the idea of being successful at either was absurd.
“But it is wild, the pull celebrities have over people. To want to buy something just because the woman fucking Adam Meyers is wearing it.”
Fucking Adam Meyers .
Twins flames of anger and arousal burned in my gut.
I didn’t know what to do with either of them.
The feeling haunted me as Linnea collected her things, said her goodbyes to Miranda and Luiza, and we drove off to the beach.
It lingered even when I felt the cold slap of water against my hands and face as I paddled out beyond the break with her and ruined each wave I took to the shore, no matter how well I rode it.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to purge the poison of jealousy and confusion until I returned to my hotel room and pulled out a pen or cracked open my laptop. This was the kind of emotional congestion that could only be untangled by writing the words on a page.
Linnea sensed my mood and gave me space for it, only smiling at me as we sat in the pocket briefly before cutting out on our own waves.
The intimacy of her knowing me well enough to leave me be, the quality of that understood silence between us, only made me sink deeper into my melancholy.
By mutual decision, we only stayed out for an hour until the sun was a full golden coin above the horizon and the beach started to populate with more than just morning joggers.
We didn’t speak as we waded through the frothy surf with our boards, or when we shucked our wetsuits and rinsed off in the outdoor showers.
But I could feel her eyes on me, though mine were closed under the spray of water.
The touch of her gaze at the long muscles arrowing from my hips to groin, where my snug navy swim shorts left little to the imagination.
For a second, I turned my body, reaching my arms up to run through my hair so that my muscles flexed and twisted, my abdominals stepping out like ladder rungs on either side of my belly, my biceps swollen.