Page 80 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“Destiny brought me here because it wanted me to be happy, and Iamhappy. And I’m going to makeyouhappy. We’re going to enjoy the hell out of everything.”
Sebastien lets out a reluctant laugh despite himself. “I suppose that if I have to be trapped in a never-ending curse, there’s no one I’d rather be stuck with than you.”
“Aw, that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He laughs for real now. “And that’s why I don’t talk that much. I’m better with actions than words.”
“Oh yeah? What kind of actions?”
He lowers his voice into that rumbling growl that renders me senseless. “When we get back to the house, I’ll show you.”
SEBASTIEN
We don’t get anything donethe first few days Helene is at my place, not because she has much to unpack, but because we can’t keep our hands off each other. I wake up in the mornings to her kissing the scar along my jaw, then kissing my neck, my chest, trailing down across my abdomen and disappearing under the sheets. When she showers, I can’t resist her naked silhouette, and I join her under the hot water, lifting her up against the tiles and taking her until her cries echo through the bathroom. Even going downstairs is interrupted by making love on the staircase, Helene’s hands braced against the towering wall of glass—wild Alaskan forest on one side, and us, untamed, on the other.
But eventually, our focus shifts, because Merrick makes good on his promise to put up a fight. He sues Helene for slander, claiming that she’s spreading lies about him committing adultery. His lawsuit puts a damper on our euphoria.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Helene. “He doesn’t have a case. The lawyers at the Weiskopf Group will take care this. They’re excellent. They’ll get this thrown out, easily.”
She nods, but I can tell she’s anxious. Still, every minute Helene spends dwelling on Merrick is time wasted; I’m aware of each second of her life as if I were watching the grains of sand slip throughthe funnel of an hourglass. I want Helene to spend her life happy—however much time there is left of it. And I have learned over the centuries to savor the moments we have together, even if they’ll be fewer than I wish for. It’s the way it has to be.
“I promised you peace and quiet to work on your novel,” I say. “Let me give that to you. I’ll tell you if there are any big developments on the Merrick front. And that way, you can let it go and focus on your writing. What do you think?”
Helene closes her eyes and leans into me. “You promise you’ll tell me if there’s anything I need to know about what Merrick’s up to?”
“I do.”
She holds out her little finger and links it with mine. “Pinkie-swear.”
“I pinkie-swear that I will tell you if there’s anything you need to know about what Merrick’s up to.”
Helene heaves a huge sigh of relief, and I can actually feel the stress leaving her, just by the way her pinkie relaxes against mine.
—
A few days later, whileHelene’s hard at work, I meet up with Adam at Dana’s restaurant. The Smokehouse is all country music, neon beer signs, and rustic Western ranch atmosphere complete with recycled wood picnic tables and tin wall paneling. It smells of wood smoke and meat—two of the best smells in the world—and a huge, punny sign above the kitchen door reads This Is Grill Life. I always smile at how much of Dana’s personality comes through in that single sign.
About a third of the seats are full for lunch, but Adam’s at the bar in back, shooting the breeze with the bartender and pretty much everyone who walks by on their way to the barbecue sauce station—Dana makes fifteen different kinds from scratch.
“Hey, Seabass!” Adam hollers as I approach. He gets up and gives me a hug, not the typical one-armed, pat-on-the-back kind that most men do, but a full vise grip, because, well, Adam is Adam, and he genuinely loves everybody that damn much.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I say.
He snickers. “So formal. Come on, man, sit down, have a beer with me.”
“What’re you drinking?”
“Pineapple Jalapeño Gose.”
“Sounds revolting.”
“Nah, it’s surprisingly good. Local brew.” Adam turns to the bartender, who’s in his midtwenties and, like everyone else who works here, wears a horseshoe pin with his name, Daniel, engraved on it. “Can you get Seabass one of these?”
I settle onto the barstool next to Adam. “How’s Colin doing? I’m going to stop by his family’s place later this afternoon to see him.”
“Our greenhorn’s nearly recovered.”
“Thank god.”
