I’m d y i n g to get my hands on this. Sebastian Vargas can scramble my eggs any day of the week. #gimmegimmegimme
Memories were funny—what remembered with vivid, certain clarity was a sad, watered-down version of the real thing. I didn’t remember him being so tall, though I’d come up to his shoulders since we were seventeen. I didn’t remember just how strong the cut of his jaw was, made sharper by his tidy scruff. Or the masculine line of his elegant nose, the abundance of his black hair, so thick, you couldn’t see his scalp, even with the ebony locks cut with ruts from his fingers. I didn’t remember the golden amber of his skin, the color so rich, it seemed to swallow sunlight thirstily.
That wasn’t the only thirsty thing in his general vicinity.
He was built like a runner, long and lean, with strong shoulders and rolling muscles. I noted every curve down to his pecs until his shirt hung too loose to count abdominal muscles that I knew for a fact were right there, chasing each other in pairs toward his narrow hips.
I tumbled into the depthless black of his eyes, such a deep shade of brown, you could only see his pupils in a certain slant of light. Those eyes I remembered, lined with enviable black lashes. That smile on wide, full lips, I knew. The flash of bright teeth when he laughed had been only for me for a few perfect summers, though we always broke it off when I went home to California.
Neither of us were dumb enough to think we could pull off long distance, smart enough even as teenagers to know better.
“Seb,” I said with a smile I hoped wasn’t too obvious to the fact that I’d have liked to climb over the bar and onto him face first, if things like manners and societal rules weren’t a thing.
“Come here,” he said with a movie star smile if I ever saw one. He walked to the galley, and I paused, indecisive for a split second.
And then I nearly ran for him, giggling like the teenage girl I was when I’d fallen in love with him a million years ago.
He caught me with a laugh that rumbled all the way through me. And for a second, he just held me there.
I breathed him in—he smelled the same, an earthy spice that I remembered most of all. One whiff elicited a biological reaction that had my hands fisting the back of his shirt where I hung onto him.
I relaxed my grip, and he took the cue to put me down. But he didn’t back away, instead hanging his hands on my hips so he could peer down into my face.
It’d always been this way with us. Easy.
If only our timing didn’t suck.
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