contact with him, but it’s beyond my capabilities right now. Like this guy? Ha! Never gonna happen.
He blinks at me a couple of times. “You have?”
“Yup. You’re my type. Totally my kind of guy.”
“Well, that’s ... reassuring.” The sarcasm oozing from him is not lost on me.
Whatever. I’ll be gone tonight, and we will never have to see one another again.
I barely manage to keep the sarcasm from my own voice when I reply, “I thought you might think that. So,” I lead as I angle the note away from the camera so only he can see it.
I watch as he takes the note, reads it, and then looks back at me. “Well, that’s a lovely note, Emma, thank you.” He slips it into the top pocket of his Mr. Darcy jacket. “It is against the rules to invite me to your bedroom, though, I am afraid.”
My bedroom? What is he talking about?
“That said, I do look forward to spending a lot more time with you, too. Although, it is a little soon to be speaking of love, don’t you think?”
I stare at him, agog. Love?
“I’m sorry, what now?”
He places his hand on mine, and adds in a heartfelt tone, “Let’s just take it one day at a time, shall we, Emma? Let things progress at a natural pace.”
I glare at him and notice that irritating smile of his has returned full-force. I’m itching hard to pull my hand away. But, like a cat with a mouse, he’s toying with me, and he’s loving every moment of it.
“Thank you, Seb,” I say with a Phoebe-like simpering smile. “That’s very understanding of you.” My eyes throw a series of pointy daggers right at his stupid face.
I cannot believe he’s made out that I’ve written him a love letter on national television!
“Just to set the record straight though, I said I like you and did not mention my bedroom.”
“Oh. I think you did.”
I shake my head. “Uh-ah. Didn’t.”
“Don’t be ashamed, Emma. It’s only natural.”
Oh, the cheek of this man! Problem is, he may be a self-absorbed jerk who apparently likes to make jokes at my expense while being filmed, but he holds all the cards. I’ve got to get him on my side if I stand any chance of getting out of here.
I control the urge to throw my drink in his face, Real Housewives style, and instead smile at him and say, “Thank you for our little chat. I hope you take what I said in the note into consideration. I’m going to go now.” I stand up, my eyes not leaving his. “I. Need. To. Go. To. The. Bathroom.”
“I see.” He stands up slowly, and I notice his impressive height, my Regency slippers no better than bare feet in the “give Emma a much needed three extra inches” stakes.
He calls me closer to him with his index finger, and hope springs inside. He’s going to meet me! This nightmare will be over soon!
I wait in expectation as he leans down toward me and whispers in my ear, “I’m certain the American people don’t need to know about your toilet habits, Emma, but thank you so much for sharing that information with them, and with me.”
He straightens back up, looking very pleased with himself, and it’s all I can do not to stomp on his foot in sheer frustration and storm off like some reality TV star diva. Which would be childish and very poorly thought out, I know, but ... argh! The man is beyond infuriating.
To add to the infuriation (is that a word? If not I’m making it one because it is perfect for Sebastian), he then proceeds to smile at me and offer me his arm as though he hasn’t just embarrassed me on national television and completely ignored my plea for help.
I stare at his outstretched arm in disbelief before I lift my eyes back up to his smarmy, arrogant, condescending (but still handsome, damn it) face. I know I could say something cutting. I’ve been known to have a quick wit. I could bring him and his arrogant game playing down to size. Instead, I choose to rise above it. I’m the bigger person. I don’t play games.
And I need him to help me out.
“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you around, Seb.” I pat him on the arm, flash him a smile, and turn on my slippered heel and walk away.
“It’s Sebastian,” he calls after me, but I’m already out of the shot, so I