Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance (Beyond the Play Book 3)
Stealing Home: A Reverse Grumpy-Sunshine College Sports Romance: Chapter 14

SEBASTIAN DIDN’T SPECIFICALLY SAY that I was welcome to do whatever I wanted in the house.

It’s not like he specifically said I wasn’t welcome, however. And when I spoke to Izzy earlier, she wholeheartedly suggested that I do the following things: use her skincare products, watch whatever I wanted using the shared Callahan streaming accounts, mess around with Cooper and Sebastian’s video games, sleep with her brother, use the brownie mix she left in the pantry, use the margarita mix she also left in the pantry, read one of the many smutty romance novels that she and Penny have been passing back and forth, have a private sing-along to Mamma Mia—something she’s done by herself on more than one occasion, and on an even rarer occasion, with a very drunk James Callahan—or a good cry to The Notebook, or, and she mentioned this twice, or perhaps three times, sleep with her brother.

I scowl as I poke through the refrigerator. I’d rather get drunk on margaritas, a silly drink to begin with, and slur my words to ABBA than sleep with Sebastian. I’d even let Izzy record it, if it meant never looking at his stupidly handsome face ever again.

I replace a carton of eggs and some bacon. Despite repeated efforts from my mother, Nana, and my many aunts, I’ve never been good in the kitchen. I don’t have enough patience for it—Mom told me that two Christmases ago, when I nearly ruined the sea bass—and most of my efforts end up tasting mediocre at best. Eggs should be easy enough, though. Even I can fry an egg and some bacon.

My stomach growls loudly. I ended up working without stopping right until I had to go to the planetarium, and then the vending machine there didn’t have anything but salt-and-vinegar chips, so I just drank from my water bottle and ignored the pang in my belly as I ran the show. It wasn’t a bad turnout for a Sunday night, mostly old people looking for something to do.

I also managed to avoid driving by the baseball field. Proud of myself for that one. Hopefully, by the time Sebastian gets back, I’ll already be locked in Izzy’s room. I might even try one of the romance novels.

I replace a pan, temper the blue flame that comes to life when I turn on the burner, and start with the bacon.

If I did read one of those romance novels, and it made me want to do something… it’d have to be before he gets to the house. I glance at my phone. I probably have time. I need something to take the edge off. Being in this house, while helpful for my work, has made it difficult to banish him from my mind. The flood ruined my favorite vibrator, unfortunately, but I can make do.

I almost went to the restaurant the night he planned for us to have the date, despite not talking to him for a week before it. I bought a new dress and everything, forest green in a wrap-around style that showed off my figure nicely. I did my makeup and curled my hair. But I couldn’t make myself take that step forward. I didn’t want to show up, only to realize he wasn’t there—and if he was, I didn’t know if I actually wanted to go down that road.

What do people even do on dates? What do they talk about? Doesn’t the label make everything awkward? A relationship isn’t the same thing as conversing around hookups, so how could he have even known he wanted it with me?

I sniff. The air does not smell like delicious bacon.

It’s burnt.

Damnit.

“Mia?” Sebastian calls—at the exact moment the fire alarm goes off.

The piercing sound worms its way right into my ear, making me grit my teeth. I lunge forward to turn off the burner, but my hand brushes against the side of the pan. Pain blooms across my knuckles.

Sebastian skids into the kitchen in street clothes, his gear bag thrown over his shoulder. He curses when he sees me, wide-eyed and looking like a fucking fool again. I grind my teeth together hard enough I might crack a tooth as he moves the pan to the back of the stove, turns on the fan, and—with a blank, determined sort of expression on his face—pulls me over to the sink.

He turns on the water and gently guides my hand underneath it. I nearly whimper from the sting, but manage to swallow it down.

“Keep that there,” he orders. He props open the kitchen door, then grabs a folder from the table and waves it over the fire alarm until it stops. The air is only slightly smoky, but it makes me cough anyway. My heart lurches at the casual command in his voice, a traitorous reaction that has me clenching the countertop with my other hand.

First the flood. Now this. He probably thinks I’m an incompetent idiot. The mere thought is enough to make me want to kick something. I’ve never been a damsel in distress, but this is the second time in as many days that he swooped in to save me, and we’re not even friends.

He turns to me, still wearing that careful expression. I can’t tell if it’s because of anger or worry. Hopefully anger. Anger is easier to brush off than worry. “Are you okay?”

I scowl. “Fine.”

He looks at the burnt bacon. “You incinerated that.”

“I got…” I trail off, then brace myself. “I got distracted. Sorry.”

He pulls an ice pack from the freezer and wraps it in a dishcloth. “Here. Sit down.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t want it to blister,” he says. “Take it.”

I study him. Is he thinking about the night after the bar fight, when he came to me with a bruise on his face? That time, I held out the ice pack. When he fucked me after, it was with a slow tenderness that belied anything that came before. The brush of his hands on my skin was so tender, I couldn’t imagine him ever throwing a punch, even though I’d seen it earlier that evening. For Penny, and for Cooper, but also for me.

I swallow down the mess of words crowding my throat and take the ice pack. I sit at one of the island stools and watch as he throws out the ruined bacon, washes the pan, then dries it and sets it back on the burner.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say as he lays out more bacon.

“Don’t want you to starve,” he says. “You haven’t eaten anything since the oatmeal, have you?”

I sit up straighter. “That’s none of your business.”

“So, I’m right.” He takes a beer out of the fridge, uncaps it using the heel of his hand in a gesture so casual, and unfortunately hot, that it has me staring, and downs half of it in one go. “I’ve seen you when you get into that work mode, you know. Pretty sure I could hit a baseball right at you and you wouldn’t notice until it caught you in the stomach.”

I roll my eyes but accept the beer he gives me. “You’d never do that.”

“No,” he agrees. He turns to the stove, tending to the bacon with a much more careful hand than I had. He takes out a bowl, next, and as I watch, he cracks several eggs into it, and beats them with salt, pepper, and paprika. He pulls shredded cheddar cheese and sour cream from the fridge and folds both into the egg mixture. I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it; he’s working with such a practiced hand, I’m jealous. It reminds me of how Nana flows through the kitchen, as at ease as a sailor on the bow of a ship.

“Why sour cream?” I ask.

“Adds a nice tang,” he says. “Keeps them fluffy, too.”

“I’ve never had them this way.”

“Izzy can’t get enough of them.”

“I talked to her earlier.” I fiddle with the edge of the dishcloth as he takes out another pan and lights another burner. He flips the bacon, too. The kitchen smells delicious, rather than acrid, and with the night air coming through the back door, there’s something cozy about the whole scene. Domestic, almost. “She suggested I drink margaritas and sing along to Mamma Mia like your brother.”

He smiles. It’s a smile that lights up his already-handsome face, and my breath nearly catches as I look at it.

“That was incredible,” he says. “I know you’ve only met James once, but trust me—he barely drinks, so when he does, it’s a party.”

I take a sip of my beer. “I decided breakfast for dinner was a more appropriate route.”

“You can’t give bacon too much heat at once, it’ll burn.” He sets several perfectly crisp pieces onto a paper-towel lined plate, then pours the eggs into the other pan. There’s a fond note in his voice, like he’s said this before. I’d bet it was to Izzy.

“Sebastian?”

He glances over his shoulder as he stirs the eggs with a spatula. His hair is still wet from the shower he must have taken after the game.

I wet my lips. “Did you win?”

His expression shutters. “No. Lost in extras.”

“I’m sorry.”

The frustration disappears from his expression in a blink. He shrugs. “We’re in a tough stretch.”

A few minutes later, he sets a plate in front of me. A pile of fluffy eggs, speckled with paprika, two pieces of perfectly crisp bacon, and buttered toast, too.

“Let’s eat outside,” he suggests. “It’s a nice night.”

I follow him outside, ignoring how my hand aches. Ignoring how much I want to kiss him in thanks, rather than just say it.

There’s a fire pit out here, plus chairs grouped around a small table. I settle into one across from him, checking out the sky, but it’s cloudy tonight. I can barely see the moon, even though it’s going to be full in a couple days. The warm breeze rustles the tops of the trees, and a bird calls out somewhere in the night.

I take a bite of eggs and promptly moan.

There are scrambled eggs—and then there are scrambled eggs. Jesus Christ. Sebastian grins at me, clearly pleased. He was right, the sour cream brings them to a whole different dimension. I try not to eat like a barbarian, but I’m so hungry it’s difficult. Sebastian, for his part, eats just as fast as me, then goes to grab another beer.

The silence is more comfortable than it has any right to be. I almost relax all the way, relishing in the late-night air and the sharp taste of the beer on my tongue. Sebastian sitting across from me, holding his glass beer bottle by the neck.

It feels… nice. Ordinary, even. As if we texted each other this morning and made these plans, and he’s going to kiss me before we head inside.

I give myself a mental shake. I burned that bridge, and Sebastian’s inherent kindness is the reason I’m sitting here right now. Nothing else. The sooner I make myself believe it, the faster I can move on, and focus on the right things. The stars and my own future, not the man sitting across from me. Pretty soon, he’s going to be playing baseball for a living, and he deserves a partner who is willing for that to be the most important thing in both their lives.

“I don’t think we’re going to make the playoffs this year,” he says.

I wince. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re not hitting well enough. Our fielding is clean, it’s just that the bats are silent.” The grip on his beer tightens. “Including mine.”

“There’s the draft, right? Pretty soon?”

He nods. “July.”

“Maybe you’re just stressed about it.”

“Maybe. Who fucking knows.” He shakes his head slightly. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He laughs shortly at some thought of his and sets his beer down. “Mia, what the hell did I do?”

I freeze with my beer halfway to my lips. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Did I upset you? Did I hurt you? What did I do, to make you decide you wanted nothing to do with me?”

“You didn’t do anything.”

He leans in, close enough our knees nearly touch. I’m drawn to his eyes again. I can still see the depths in them, even in the near-dark, illuminated only by the soft light from the kitchen. We could be in a void, the two of us. We’re the only ones awake in this neighborhood, for sure, past midnight with barely any college kids around for the summer.

“You said you’d tell me.”

I shiver as a strong gust of cool nighttime wind washes over us. It ruffles his hair, but he doesn’t so much as blink. He might be adopted, but the intensity feels just like Cooper’s. There’s something electric about the Callahans. I let myself get drawn into Sebastian’s orbit, and now I’m doggedly following him, even as I try to escape. If he’s the sun, then I’m a comet, burning up from the close contact.

“You didn’t hurt me,” I say. I scrape my teeth against the inside of my cheek. “I just—can’t.”

“Bullshit.” He puts his hand on my knee—careful, calculated. Even that small amount of contact has my stomach clenching. My knee is cold, and his hand is warm through the leggings. It would be warmer still on my bare skin. If he dragged his hand up several inches, he’d be dangerously close to a part of me that’s silently begging for contact. “You cared about me. About us. Tell me what changed.”

Nothing changed. I just tore myself away before the inevitable crash. And admitting that would hurt worse than locking myself in Izzy’s room for the night.

But he’s so close, and I want his warmth. I lean in too, and some part of me sings with satisfaction when I hear his breath hitch.

We could kiss so easily.

Then he pulls away. Gathers himself up. Disappointment hits me like cold water to the face, but I pull back too.

“Goodnight, Mia,” he says. There’s a softness to his voice, even though he has every right to be angry. This is the Sebastian I couldn’t help but develop feelings for, and the Sebastian I need to stay away from. Nice. Understanding. Good. “Keep an eye on your hand.”

A million things threaten to escape from my lips, but all I can manage is, “Goodnight, Sebastian.”