Page 27 of The Sun & Her Burn (Impossible Universe Trilogy #2)

LINNEA

O f course, it wasn’t a surprise.

Not really.

To be around Sebastian and Adam was to be torn asunder between the gravitational pull of two planets that were meant to merge as one. Their tragic love story was written in every line of their bodies and every truncated gaze.

But to have actually stood in that small pantry with those two big, handsome men in the throes of animalistic passion had been electrifying. Almost terrifying.

What might they do to a girl if she tried to step between them?

Not to stop that rampant desire, though I had a feeling they might both be grateful for someone to tell them to cease and desist.

But to stoke that fire.

To watch as Adam’s square palms skate down Sebastian’s v-shaped torso to the taut muscles arrowing into his groin. To witness the kiss they must have shared, a mouth-eating, tongue sucking extravaganza that would have made me wet in seconds.

Far from shameful, their sexual chemistry was intoxicating.

I could understand that even after ten years, it was not something that could be diminished or changed.

It was a part of this world just like the green grass and the sun above.

So why was Adam acting as if it was only a matter of time before I condemned him to slaughter?

I had cleaned up his hand, happy to find the cuts shallow and easily tended to, and then pushed him toward the shower while I took the one down the hall to get ready for our lunch date at Nobu.

I thought about the expression on his face as I rinsed off and applied my makeup, going heavier than usual because I knew we’d be in the press the moment we pulled up to the restaurant.

He’d looked so frightened as he watched Sebastian walk out.

As if he were both afraid Seb would never come back and afraid that he would.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out there was some internalized homophobia there, and it made my heart break for him.

For the first time since we started this arrangement, I felt like I had seen into Adam’s soul.

And the glimpse only made me eager for more.

He was completely composed by the time we met in the foyer forty minutes later.

Dressed in a thin, forest-green polo that hugged his muscular torso and black jeans with black aviators covering verdant-green eyes, I knew he had pulled himself together behind his Hollywood armor, and I wouldn’t get another glimpse unless I dug for it.

Unwilling to spook him, I’d taken his offered hand and followed him to the garage without commenting on the sleek black Ferrari he chose from his collection to take us into Malibu.

The car ride was equally quiet, his gaze frequently touching my face as I tapped my thigh to the music and studied the city rushing by outside the window.

I might have looked tranquil, but I was plotting.

By the time we were seated at a discreet table in the corner of the oceanfront patio, Adam was almost relaxed.

I let him order a drink—sparkling water with lemon instead of hard booze, which I thought he would order to take the edge off—before settling in.

“It seems we both know what it’s like to be kissed by Sebastian,” I mused blandly.

Adam choked on his sparkling water and coughed into his fist.

I smiled placidly at him.

“What the bloody hell, Linnea,” he growled. “We’re in public.”

I rolled my eyes. “At a secluded table.”

“There are listening ears everywhere,” he whispered with a glower.

“I’m not judging you. Clearly, I have a weakness for Italians with golden eyes, too.”

“Nea,” he snapped.

And I liked the nickname, even if he spoke it harshly.

So I beamed at him. “He unsettles you.”

“You unsettle me,” he grumbled, looking down at his menu.

“Good,” I declared. “You need unsettling.”

He sighed, closing his menu to lean over the table, his green eyes so bright against his tanned skin and burnished-gold hair. “My life was fine before Oscar Hampton threatened to ruin it.”

“By outing you,” I said softly.

Adam scanned the restaurant behind me and nodded tersely.

I reached across the table to take his bandaged hand into mine, rubbing my fingers along the backs of his knuckles. Almost reluctantly, some of the tension in his shoulders lessened.

“Why would he do such a thing?” I asked.

For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer, his gaze caught somewhere in a distant memory.

“He was an old acquaintance of my ex-wife and myself,” he said carefully, leveling me with a heavy glance that said that was a euphemism. “He was…unhappy with the termination of his tenor with us.”

I had to roll my lips between my teeth to hide my inappropriate smile. Only, I’d just realized Adam spoke even more formally in that crisp upper-class accent when he was being guarded, and it was wildly endearing.

“It seems you and your ex-wife had an interesting relationship,” I mused.

His gaze narrowed, but the server chose that moment to return to take our lunch orders. I was starving after surfing, so I ordered the burger with a side of Parmesan truffle fries.

Adam shook his head slightly at my order, rubbing a hand across his mouth as if he could erase the smile threatening to claim it.

“What?” I demanded. “You’re lucky they didn’t have horse on the menu because I could eat one. I’m famished.”

His laugh felt like a gift, rough-edged with disuse and deep from his belly.

Oh no , I thought, watching the handsome grump soften with humor, I’m in trouble .

Why was it so intimate sharing a moment of genuine laughter with someone? Why did it feel as if, every time I won his smile, the threads stitching us haphazardly together tightened into something substantial?

A backstitch.

Something that might last beyond the next three years of our contractual obligation.

“By all means, eat whatever you’d like,” he allowed magnanimously. “You have to understand, most women I take to dinner order a salad and leave most of it untouched.”

I waved my hand. “Unfortunately, being a woman in this industry is brutal on self-image. Not to mention being a woman in general, in this day and age of social media? I dare you to find a female who doesn’t experience moments of self-hatred in their own body. It’s horrific, really.”

Adam arched a brow and leaned against one elbow, his fancy silver watch glinting in the sunlight, his visage everything noble and haughty. Something about those cool good looks made me want to get on my knees to serve him.

I wondered what “good girl” might sound like in those clipped British tones.

“Yet you suffer from none such insecurities?” he asked, but it wasn’t really a question because he thought he knew the answer.

I shrugged one shoulder while I fiddled with one of my rings, a silver band hammered to look like coral and studded with sea pearls that a Hawaiian jeweller friend had made for me.

“Yes and no. I have moments of doubt, but I try not to let myself wallow in them. I’m healthy and young with the ability to surf and do it well.

I may not be conventionally beautiful like a lot of women in Hollywood, but I also know the industry well enough to say I probably got the few jobs I’ve landed because I’m pretty enough and not for any serious acting chops. ”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You were unfairly charming in Swamplands, given the fact you were supposed to be a villainess.”

The tightly furled bud of confidence that had been underfed and underlit my entire life softened and arched into bloom.

“That’s high praise coming from the Great Adam Meyers,” I said lightly, but there was no mistaking how deeply that praise resonated within me.

Adam inclined his chin regally and tipped his glass to me. “Raise your glass and let’s have a cheers, shall we?”

“To our mutually assured professional successes?” I guessed, mimicking his habitual use of raising a haughty brow.

His full mouth, a pale pink that looked petal soft amidst the bristles of his golden-brown stubble, pursed. “To us, I think. In all our iterations for the next three years.”

“To us,” I echoed, clinking our glassware together.

His other hand lay on the table, and I nibbled my lower lip for a moment before I gave in to the impulse and slid my fingers over the backs of his, linking them together.

When I gazed up at the Brit, his gaze was warm.

“I thought that was you.”

I blinked at the familiar voice, wondering for a moment if I was hallucinating.

Of course, I had to have been, given that only someone with truly bad luck would bump into their fake boyfriend’s ex-wife on a lunch date.

But really, I should have known something like this would happen.

I’d never been particularly lucky, and from the soured but unsurprised look on Adam’s face, perhaps neither had he.

“Savannah,” Adam greeted flatly as the woman in question stepped by me to stop beside our table.

I had always found her exquisite, as she meant me and everyone else to.

Her grace and sophistication were evident in every lithe line of her petite body, as well as in every item of designer clothing, all in varying shades of off-white.

Even her expression, looking down her nose at Adam, small mouth perfectly painted a shade of raspberry that offset her wide blue eyes, was calculated for maximum effect.

In any space, at any age, Savannah Richardson was a queen holding court, and no one, absolutely no one, deserved a place on a throne at her side.

Not even her husband, the first or second.

I suddenly felt woefully inadequate in my handmade leopard-print dress.

It was casual enough for a posh lunch with Adam, thanks to the muted colors and the structured corset that gave way to a gauzy, flowy A-line skirt I’d matched with pale designer gold sandals I’d found in my mom’s room, but I felt suddenly as if I was a little girl playing dress-up in Miranda’s hotel closet while she, Savannah, and Bobbi prepared for a televised event.

Adam squeezed my hand, surprising me back to myself to find him smiling ever so slightly my way.

Buck up , his expression seemed to say.