The Publicist's Plight (Book I in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Thirty Two: Conversations With A Statue

I open my eyes to the soft, delicate sounds of rain hitting the bedroom window. Everything is a blur at first, but once my eyes adjust to the light, I realize I'm in Sebastian's room on his couch.

I lay still for a minute and listen to the rain. I stir a bit and realize there's a blanket on me—I don't remember grabbing one when I dozed off, nor do I remember taking off my slippers either.

Maybe I did those things while I was sleeping.

I sit up and stretch my muscles. Sebastian's bed is empty, and for some reason I'm suddenly worried. Of course there could be a logical reason why he isn't in bed anymore, like he actually went downstairs (which I doubt) or he went into the library (which I also doubt), but with the events of early this morning ripe in my mind, it's hard to think of a logical conclusion when what you thought made sense and what you thought fit perfectly actually doesn't.

With those thoughts eating away at my tired conscience, I stand up and put on my slippers. My phone is dead, but that doesn't seem to bother me compared to it being dead any other day.

I fold up the blanket and place it neatly on the couch before heading to the door. There's a lot I need to think over today, especially in regards to the next moves, both corporately and emotionally for Sebastian. I know for a fact he doesn't want anyone else knowing about what happened, but who am I to keep a secret so big like that? A woman who was brought here to make him a saint in the public eye, not find out the darkest depths of himself?

You can always call Garrett and tell him you're not up for it anymore, I think to myself. But even though the idea crosses my mind, I can't bring myself to do it. And it isn't the money that's keeping my feet planted in the same place. It's the inability to leave something, someone unfinished behind.

I walk past the bathroom door and notice it cracked open. The shower is on, and I see the figure of a man, Sebastian, standing underneath the running water. The moist air sticks to my cool skin, inviting me inside. But what the hell am I doing, walking into an occupied bathroom?

My mind chides myself to leave, but instead I linger between the beckoning sounds of the shower and cool draft of the bedroom, because he's just standing there, head tilted up at the shower head, letting the water fall around him and his closed eyes. I swallow hard as my eyes drift along his naked body, blushing at the forbidden path my gaze has taken across the sculpting of his back muscles, contracting with every ragged breath. Fuck, what am I doing? It's making my skin crawl; how unprofessional I'm being right now. Then again, when has anything been remotely normal or conventional this past week?

He runs his hands through his hair, down his neck and rests them on his shoulders. His back it facing me; I can't see his face, and he can't see mine. But there's an undoubtedly clear entity trying to stop me from being so creepily prying, because the towel from the shower door towel bar prevents me from seeing anything "too" private. And that should be an apparent sign that I need to leave, which I should...but I can't, and I don't; his physique is a masterpiece, as well as the entangled rest of him that he is more intent on keeping locked away from the world—away from me. Maybe that's my curiosity speaking, or my confused set of hormones and emotions intertwined to create an opinion on him and his private nature, both physical and mental. It makes me wonder: is his naked mind more intricate than his naked body? Or is it so fragile that his skin is the only thing he wishes women to caress?

"You planning on joining me or something?"

I look up and gasp shortly in horror at Sebastian staring at me inquisitively. There's no humor in his eyes, yet there's no seriousness either—like he actually wants me to join him. He's just...curious, staring at me expressionlessly like he isn't naked in front of me.