Page 39 of One Week Wingman

“Isn’t that why you called me?” he retorts.

“It wasn’t an insult,” I say quickly. “It takes some serious skill to make friends with literally everyone you meet.”

He gives a casual shrug. “Call it a survival tactic. British boarding schools aren’t exactly known for being the most welcoming places… It’s just easier when everyone gets along.”

I remember what he told me about his childhood, last night in the treehouse. It sounded cold and lonely, and I feel a surge of admiration that Seb was able to turn that into warmth and friendship.

Daisy and Jason rejoin us. “So, Daisy tells me you’re working as a bartender in the city now,” Jason says, with a friendly smile. “I would never have guessed it. She was always so ambitious,” he adds to Seb. “Planning to run the world.”

“I know!” Daisy agrees. “Nobody can believe it, when I say you’re not like, a big-shot lawyer now.”

I tense.

“You probably need one of those, don’t you, Daisy?” Seb speaks up, before I have to reply. “All these brand deals, and sponsorship. How does that work, exactly?”

I give him a silent look of thanks, as Daisy happily launches into a long description of her team. “…And then there’s my manager, and virtual assistant, and real-life assistant…”

My not-so-impressive life is quickly forgotten—and thanks to Seb, it stays that way for the rest of the day. It turns out, he’s perfect at running interference. Whenever the conversation turns towards me, and what I’m (not) doing with my life, he smoothly steers it to something else. Mom makes some comments about grad school? Seb distracts her with questions about her garden. Daisy asks if it’s weird, still having a roommate at my age? Seb’s right there, to point out the perfect backdrop for another photoshoot. He even manages to seem fascinated when Phil tells him a long story about the relative dimensions of waste pipes.

Did I ever dismiss him as being a shallow playboy? I take it all back. That charm of his is like a defensive forcefield, keeping everyone laughing happily—and all the usual criticism about my life bouncing off harmlessly, so I’m not tangled up in a ball of self-doubt and insecurity.

By the time we head back to the parking lot, baskets full, toting a case of apple cider for good measure, I’m ready to kiss the guy for saving my ass.

Metaphorically speaking.

Obviously.

“Uh oh,” Phil comments, spying a car stuck in a muddy ditch, its wheels spinning. “This ground can be a real hazard.”

Immediately, Seb puts down his basket. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble,” he says, already striding over. “Gentlemen?”

Phil and Jason go over with him, and after chatting to the driver for a moment, they take up positions, trying to push the car out of the mud.

Mom frets beside me. “He shouldn’t be lifting heavy things,” she says, watching Phil. “He’ll strain something.”

“He’ll be fine,” Daisy says. “Stefano and Jason have it under control.”

And boy, do they ever.

They guys have stripped off their sweaters and rolled up their sleeves, straining and grunting in the mud as they struggle to get the car out. “Helloooo…” Daisy coos, watching, and even I have to admit, it’s a pretty great view.

Sebastian’s shoulders and biceps are flexing, as he pushes against the trunk of the car. Then he pauses and pulls his T-shirt over his head. My mouth goes dry at the sight of his bare, tanned chest, all sweaty and gleaming in the sun.

“Woah,” Daisy breathes.

And, yeah, woah is about right.

The engine revs again and mud splatters all over Sebastian. He laughs and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of mud. Phil, who has somehow managed to escape the muck, is talking to the driver again and the car suddenly jerks forward and onto the path.

A cheer goes up, and I look around to find a crowd has gathered. A female crowd. Watching Sebastian, who is currently wiping his chest down with his tee, muscles gleaming.

He saunters back, looking proud. “Enjoy the show?” he asks me, teasing.

I blush. “You’ve got mud all over you,” I say quickly, trying to hide the fact I’m practically drooling.

“What, you mean this?”

He wipes his muddy hands on my face, playfully smearing dirt all over me. I shriek and shove him away, but I forget we’re not on solid ground. I lose my balance, and pinwheel, grabbing at him again for balance.

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