Only Ever You

Chapter 3

Sebastian spoke again at last.

“Stay here tonight. A driver will take you home tomorrow. The butler will take care of you once you’re inside. Ask for whatever you need.”

When he finished, he remained where he was, with no intention of getting out.

Shadows from the tree moved across the car. He sat there composed and untouchable, still high above her on his pedestal.

The candle flame went out.

Clara wasn’t disappointed in the slightest. If anything, she felt a flicker of pride. Of course, the man she had set her sights on would be like this.

“Sorry for the trouble.”

She arranged the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl, hooked her fingers through the strap of her purse, and got out.

A renovated three-story historic house stood before her, its garden layered with plants of varying heights, all growing together with an artfully untamed charm.

She went up and rang the bell. The door opened almost at once.

The man who answered wore a black-and-white uniform. He was middle-aged, with the sort of face that had reliably written all over it. This had to be the butler Sebastian had mentioned.

Sebastian must have already given instructions. Arthur Wainwright didn’t ask a single unnecessary question. He welcomed her inside with a smile, asked about her food preferences, instructed the chef to prepare something for her, and arranged for a maid to take her upstairs to bathe and change.

At first, Clara still wasn’t certain this was Sebastian’s home, though she vaguely remembered hearing that he lived on Aster Ridge Drive.

She didn’t know for sure until she entered the dressing room outside the bathroom and saw a small painting on a tall stand in the corner.

It was the work of an obscure emerging artist whose style was experimental and abstract. Like cilantro, people either loved it or couldn’t stand it.

Sebastian might have been the largest collector of his work. Vincent had mentioned it once when they were at an exhibition, probably to question Sebastian’s taste.

Not that Clara agreed. She thought Sebastian’s taste was impeccable.

And even if it weren’t, the rest of them would still rush to imitate his clothes, his food, his possessions, and his hobbies. Sebastian liked shooting, and that alone had started a craze in their circle, keeping several high-end shooting clubs in business.

Clara spent a long time soaking in the hot bath. By the time she changed into the lounge-wear provided for her and returned to the dining room, warmth had seeped back into her entire body.

A late-night meal was already waiting: a bowl of noodles topped with a soft-boiled egg.

When she finished, Wainwright appeared and politely asked whether she’d had enough or wanted anything else.

Clara nearly jumped out of surprise.

She had no idea where he had come from. He moved like a ghost.

Vincent’s family had a butler and household staff too, but none of them had perfected the art of becoming nearly invisible whenever their employer didn’t need them.

“I’m full,” Clara said with a smile. “Thank you. Please tell the chef it was delicious.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Miss Vale. Your room has been prepared. You may retire whenever you wish.”

Clara glanced around. “Does Sebastian usually live here?”

Wainwright only smiled.

Clara didn’t press him. “May I look around a little?”

“You’re welcome to explore the first floor.”

The interior was Tuscan in style, with much of the natural roughness of the materials left intact. Beige stone and warm wood made the high-ceilinged first floor feel unexpectedly inviting.

Clara had no right to care, but she felt oddly relieved to discover that Sebastian didn’t live in a cold, sterile house decorated entirely in black, white, and gray.

She picked up her glass of water and wandered into the living room, stopping before a floor-to-ceiling window nearly twenty feet high.

Beyond it was an enclosed courtyard planted with clusters of bamboo. Their shadows swayed in the rain, like an ink-washed painting. There should have been a soft rustling sound, but the glass shut it out.

Clara borrowed a raincoat from Wainwright. After putting it on, she slipped through the narrow glass door used for maintenance and stepped into the courtyard.

She couldn’t remember which movie had contained a scene like this.

It had been raining there too. Pale gray daylight had filtered through the windows, casting the moving shadows of the rain onto a white wall while two people spoke inside, the atmosphere quiet and intimate.

She crouched on the clean stone paving, took out her phone, and turned on the flashlight.

The lights inside had been turned off. As the beam passed through the rain and glass, it became a school of tiny gray fish swimming across the white wall.

She played with the light, completely absorbed.

She didn’t notice someone quietly approaching the other side of the window. After standing there for a moment, he bent one knee and sat down.

The flashlight swept past the corner.

Clara froze.

Slowly, she moved the beam back to the place it had just crossed.

On the other side of the glass wall, Sebastian sat on the floor with one leg raised and an arm resting loosely across his knee. At some point, he had changed into black lounge-wear.

He was looking at her.

There was no expression on his face. The flashlight carved his features out of the darkness, sharpening the line of his brow bone and the high bridge of his nose. His eyes were faintly deep-set, their pale color shaded by long lashes.

There was a brooding, almost bloodless quality to his handsomeness. His thin lips were pressed together, making him look displeased, though a closer look revealed no real anger.

Clara was too startled to move.

Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. She looked genuinely blank.

All her makeup had been washed away, revealing her natural face. Fine strands of hair framed her forehead. Her unshaped brows refused to lie neatly, and paired with her clear black-and-white eyes, they gave her an unexpected air of upright innocence.

Sebastian stared at her for a long time.

Long enough for her heartbeat to stumble out of rhythm.

She hadn’t done anything wrong, yet she felt as nervous as if she’d been caught red-handed.

Finally, Clara saw his fingers curl slightly.

He tapped once against the glass and moved his lips.

She couldn’t hear him, but the words were easy to read.

Come inside.