Page 94 of Hate To Be Mine

“Are you okay?”

“No.” I sighed and rubbed my hand over my face, belatedly realizing I probably just smeared more makeup. “No, I’m really not okay.”

“I don’t know what you did to that man, but he’s completely lost his mind over you.”

“He hasn’t lost his mind. He just lost his temper.”

“Bernadette, I’ve known Sebastian for years. I’ve dressed him for hundreds of shoots. I’ve seen models fight over him—literal catfights, fake nails and hair extensions everywhere.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But I’ve never seen him fight over a girl. Never. He’s scary when he’s in love.”

“He’s not in love,” I said automatically.

“He’s in something.”

“Trouble, probably.” Guilt crashed over me. “This is my fault. I should have handled Rico myself. I should have left earlier. I definitely shouldn’t have been drinking with the crew at all.”

“Stop. This is not your fault. Rico was being a creep. Sebastian reacted badly, but his intentions were good.”

“Good intentions don’t matter when the police are involved.”

“No, they don’t.” She stood, moving to make more coffee. “But they matter in other ways. The man was willing to risk everything—the campaign, his reputation, his family’s trust—to defend you. That means something.”

It meant he was impulsive and reckless. It meant he didn’t think about consequences. It meant exactly what everyone had worried about—that he wasn’t ready for this responsibility.

But it also meant he cared.

“He’s everything I’m not,” I said. “He has zero cares. I have all the cares.”

She laughed softly. “I believe they say opposites attract.”

“I think that applies to magnets only.”

“And people.”

I pushed myself up, my head spinning for a moment. “I’m going to shower. How do I remove the glue from my hair and the spackle from my face?”

She laughed. “Soap and water. You’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t sure I believed that. Nothing about my fantasy tropical getaway was fine. It had gone from amazing to an absolute dumpster fire in a matter of hours.

33

SEBASTIAN

The meeting with the Miratoan police had gone better than expected—which was to say, I wasn’t in jail. I didn’t have to worry about dropping the soap or getting a prison tattoo on my virgin skin. Briggs had worked his legal magic. Rico had been exposed as having multiple complaints against him on previous productions, and I’d walked away with a hefty fine and a stern warning.

But the real reckoning was coming. If I wasn’t on an island with no escape, I might have bailed. Anything to avoid the bullshit lecture that was coming my way. When my brothers summoned me to Adrian’s bungalow, I knew I was in trouble.

I was a grown-ass man and I was going to have to sit there while they lectured me like a child. It sucked. It was embarrassing and beyond irritating, but they all knew I was a risk and they all expected me to fuck it up.

Congratulations. They were going to get to hold it over my head for the rest of our lives. I would forever be labeled the screw-up. There was no way they were going to give me another chance to prove myself. One and done.

I walked to Adrian’s bungalow like a man walking to the electric chair. My feet dragged. My shoulders slumped. I was the picture of bummed. I didn’t bother knocking.

All three of them were sitting in the small living room. Elizabeth was sitting at the small table eating a sandwich. I could smell pickles. It was hard to say what kind of concoction she had put together. She gave me a sad look. She was going to be the witness to my execution.

Adrian looked at me with that disappointed parent look. Briggs had a stylus in hand and was tapping away on his iPad. The lawyer checking off all the guilty charges they were about to level at me. And Dash sprawled in the chair to Adrian’s right, looking like he was settling in for a good show. He was just glad it wasn’t him. I could see it in that small smirk on his lips. He owed me. My screw-up made him look good.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked.