Page 6 of Worth Every Moment (Hawkston Billionaires #4)

ERICA

The runway never ceases to get my adrenaline going; the thumping music and bright lights; the audience’s rapt energy tingling over my skin like magic.

Seb is sitting in the front row. I can’t look, but I sense his presence like the pull of a magnet I have to resist.

Is he paying attention, or is he flirting with someone else? Is he watchin—

Snap .

Almost inaudible over the music, the crack jars up my leg. It happens in a split second, my brain struggling to catch up. Is that my foot or the shoe?

My ankle twists and my knee buckles. Pain surges through me, panic wrenching at my chest.

My arms fly out to break my fall, but I’m going sideways, not forward.

A piece of the twisted heel skitters across the runway as my body slams to the ground.

Pain splices my hip, but it’s not nearly as bad as whatever has happened to my ankle.

I can’t look up. Can I hear gasps? I don’t want to see the faces in the audience staring at me. I can’t move; my ankle is agony. Could I have broken it? Is that possible?

A clammy sweat breaks out over my body, and the harsh thump of the music resonates through my bones as though I’m lying on top of a speaker.

The model behind me is approaching, which means I’ve only been down here a second or two.

She’ll likely walk around me. Or over me.

I’m roadkill. Runway kill. Shit . I’m out of time, out of rhythm.

I’m messing it all up. I try to stand, but my ankle gives in.

I can’t walk. Panic roams through my mind like it owns the place.

Will I have to crawl back? Maybe I could roll off the raised runway and hide out of sight until it’s over. But I can’t do that. I have to finish the walk.

A figure lunges from the seats, his hands slamming onto the runway before he hauls himself up.

It’s impressive, how limber he is. How easy it is for him to push up here in his suit.

The watch on his wrist. The watch? I hone in on him through the pain.

I’d recognise those hands anywhere. Gorgeous, masculine hands…

Seb crouches beside me and his concerned eyes meet mine. I’d love nothing but to throw my arms around him, but we’re already making a scene. Ruining the show. Dominic will be furious. Seb reads my face for a second, maybe two, then nods, realising I won’t abandon the runway.

“I didn’t mean literally break a leg,” he hisses.

I try to smile, but it warps into a grimace as pain lances through my ankle and up my leg, and Seb winces at the sight. He leans towards me, his mouth close to my ear when he whispers, “I’ve got you.” He eases a hand around my waist and loops my arm around his neck. “Lean on me.”

He helps me to my feet and lets me use him like a crutch as I steel myself to walk the rest of the show, all evidence of pain shoved down so deep that you’d never know I was suffering.

He walks the runway like he’s done it a million times, looking every inch the model even with me hanging off him. In another life, he could have done this too.

When we reach the end of the runway, and we’re finally hidden from view, I collapse, slumping against Seb.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

Dominic runs over to us, looking Seb up and down, without so much as a glance at me. “Who designed your suit? What a shame it wasn’t one of mine. That would have been perfect.”

Seb looks horrified. “Perfect?” I try to communicate using only my eyes that this is how Dominic is. The clothes and the show are the number one priority. I never expect more from him.

Dominic huffs. “I’m just saying, you would look fantastic in one of my suits.” He plucks at Seb’s lapel. “This one is not quite—”

“Get your hands off,” Seb growls, and Dominic springs back in alarm. “What the fuck were you thinking, making Erica walk in those stupid shoes?”

Dominic’s lips purse and he turns to me. “Erica. Shit, darling. That was messy. Can you get up again? Can you walk?” He grabs a silk dress from the nearby railing and holds it out to me. “I need you in this in thirty seconds.”

I’ve never missed a show or pulled out. Not once. My body revolts at the idea of abandoning a show halfway through. I try to keep the pain out of my voice as I say, “I… I’m not sure.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Seb accuses Dominic. “She’s in pain. She’s not walking again tonight. And it’s your fault. It’s barbaric to have women walking around on those things.” Seb indicates my broken shoe.

Dominic’s mouth falls open, his brow creasing. “You… you…” he stammers, hardly able to say a word in the face of Seb’s fury. “You know nothing about fashion.” He turns back to me, waving the dress in my face. “You need to get it on. Now.”

Seb yanks the dress out of Dominic’s hands.

“If you don’t take this fucking thing away, I’m going to tie it round your neck and hang you with it.

” Dominic’s hands fly upwards and he reaches out for the dress, a terrorised expression on his face, but Seb isn’t finished.

“She could have broken a bone. Look at her.” He points aggressively at my ankle, which is swelling up like a balloon.

“Seb, don’t,” I say through the pain, digging my fingers into his arm. His jaw clenches and he gives a little sideways jerk of the chin as though he’s mentally telling himself to settle. He shoves the dress back at Dominic, the silk now all crumpled.

Marni appears with a bottle of water and painkillers. She helps me take two and then produces a plastic bag full of ice for my ankle.

“Erica, Erica,” Dominic frets. “The show must go on. It has to be you. The show is you. You and me, Erica. What can we do? Can we get a shot? Some painkillers injected right in there? Steroids? Someone?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Seb says. “She’s done. She’s not going back out.”

Dominic presses his lips together, furious, as he surveys me. Then he lets out a breath and turns to Seb, fingers steepled. “If you still want to buy my coll—”

“I don’t want to buy your fucking collection,” Seb says through gritted teeth. “I want to make sure Erica is okay. If you aren’t going to help me, fuck off.”

Dominic backs away, half-cowering. Once he’s put some distance between him and Seb, he starts barking orders, redistributing my outfits to other models, and making sure the rest of the show isn’t a second out of time.

“You fashion people are nuts,” Seb mutters, making me laugh, even through the pain. “It’s too noisy here.” Before I know it, he’s lifted me in his arms, using his body to shield my ankle as he pushes through the other models and staff.

“What are you doing?” I murmur, surprised at how strong he is. He’s not built like a gym monkey. He’s limber like a tennis player.

“Taking you somewhere that arsehole of a designer isn’t going to find you and drag you back out again. The bastard will have you hobbling out there with a gun to your head otherwise. Where’s quiet?”

I nod at a doorway that leads to a quiet preparation room in the back. No one will be there now.

Seb strides that way. An inconvenient fizz of something bubbles through my core, and I find myself bracing, as though tensing every muscle might ward the sensation off. Friends. We’re friends. That’s it.

“You okay?” he says with concern. “Relax.”

I nod, obeying his command and softening in his hold.

I could stay right here all night. He pushes through the door and lets it swing closed behind us, shutting out the noise.

Carrying me to a seat, he settles me in it, then kneels at my feet, unstrapping the shoe and wrapping my ankle with the ice.

His touch is gentle, reverent. A shiver runs up my spine, making itself known through the discomfort. It’s the ice. Just the ice.

I stare down at the top of Seb’s bowed head. His hair is so thick that the glimpse of exposed scalp in the parting feels like a secret I shouldn’t be witnessing. It’s so intimate. I want to trace my finger down it, run my hands through his hair, and tip his face up to look at me.

I shake the thought away. Of all the men in the world, Seb Hawkston is not the one to be having these thoughts about. “You climbed on the runway. You ruined Dominic’s show,” I whisper.

“Ruined it?” Seb says, sounding amazed. “This will be all anyone can talk about. Dominic’s collection is made.”

I let out a husky laugh. “You might be right.”

He glances up at me, and the sight of him steals my next breath.

Those blue eyes, so full of life, his smile, his lips, his jaw…

he’s like a movie star, and coming from me, who spends my working life with some of the best-looking people in the world, the compliment is a serious one.

But unlike those of us whose career depends on their looks, Seb is casual about his face.

It just is . It’s as though his good looks hold no weight for him at all, and that’s incredibly appealing. To me, that sounds like freedom…

“How does it feel?” he asks, laying a gentle hand over the top of my foot, holding the ice to the ankle with his other hand.

I try to rotate my foot, but a fierce hit of pain strikes and I suck in a gasp. “Not good. But I think it’s just a sprain.”

Seb makes a low hmming sound as his hand rests on my foot. His touch is feather-light. A caress that’s of absolutely no therapeutic use. I should tell him to stop. I should. This is definitely crossing some line. Do friends do this? This feels more than friendly.

His fingers continue up the front of my foot.

It’s not providing relief, but it is soothing.

I shouldn’t be letting him do it. Should put a stop to it.

It feels like a strange type of foreplay, and given the tingles that are spreading up my legs leaving fields of goosebumps in their wake, my body is convinced we’re doing something here too.

Can he see those goosebumps on my legs? I hope not. I need to put a stop to this. Say something to shift the silence away from my skin and his hands… and the way my body is responding to his touch.

“I saw you out there,” I say. “With those women.”