Emma Brady—the one no one wanted sexy Sebastian to choose—was spotted last night doing a one-up on her red carpet arrival on the show last summer.
This time she made sure she was surrounded by a big crowd, some of whom she splattered with the pink goo artist Rasmus told us was meant to raise awareness of pig farming in this country. By the looks of things, clumsy Emma feels a certain affinity with our swine cousins. Oink oink.
I look up at Sebastian as mortification fills my bloodstream. “They said oink oink.”
“Brady, don’t torture yourself,” he says as he gently pulls the phone from my hand and switches it off. “It’s not worth it.”
“But it was so humiliating. And in front of your friends and family, too. And your granny!” I bury my head in my hands. “I cannot catch a break with that woman.”
“My family probably barely noticed it,” he soothes.
I let out a sardonic laugh. “It was a little hard to miss. The one good thing is that you weren’t there to see it, but that really is the only good thing.” I scrunch my eyes shut, willing all of this to go away. I feel his warm hand on my back, and I look up at him.
“You certainly found the most dramatic place to land,” he says with a small smile.
“I know, right? A freaking toilet!”
His attempt to stifle a laugh is unsuccessful.
“Don’t laugh,” I sulk, not ready to make light of this just yet.
He slips his arm around my shoulder and places a soft kiss on my lips. “Brady, if anyone can look utterly charming while their bottom is wedged in a toilet bowl in the middle of a crowded room, it’s you.”
“Like that’s a thing.”
“I think you just made it one. I fully expect to see images of many celebrities posing in Rasmus’s toilet bowls in the future. He’ll love this publicity.”
I begin to soften. “Do you think?”
“Are you kidding? You made his artwork frontpage news today.”
“I guess,” I concede.
“Before long, everyone will be accessorizing with a Rasmus bowl,” he jokes, and I begin to soften.
“Maybe Gigi Hadid will appear in one on the next cover of Vogue?”
He grins at me. “I have absolutely no idea who that is, but it seems highly likely to me.”
“She’s only one of the biggest models right now, Seb.” I shake my head at his lack of pop culture knowledge. “I know what. They’ll call it ‘bathroom chic,’ and everyone will be doing it, from the Kardashians to royalty.”
“Lady Gaga at the next Met Ball.”
My eyebrows jump up in surprise. “You know about Lady Gaga? And the Met Ball?”
“I’m English, Brady, not dead.”
“Is that so, Mr. Darcy?” I tease as I place my hands on his face and pull him in for another kiss.
“Mmm,” is his only reply.
A fresh thought has me pulling back. “What about your family? They all saw it. Even Uncle Hector and his beautiful Italian wife.”
“For starters, I wouldn’t worry in the least about what Uncle Hector thinks. He’s not exactly done the family name any favors with his string of wives and dodgy businesses. And as for the rest of them, Zara and Mother both think you’re the bees’ knees. You falling into an artist’s toilet bowl isn’t going to change that.”
I make a face. “What about your granny?”
“I admit, Granny’s a different kettle of fish altogether.”
I slump in my seat. “She already hates me. Now she thinks I’m a total idiot as well.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Sebastian mollifies.
“Fun fact, Seb, she does.”
“Give her time. She’s old-fashioned, sure, but she’s also just trying to protect me. She’s a lioness with her cub.”
“She wants to protect you from the gold digger American reality show contestant who humiliates herself in the media.”
“Well, when you put it like that…” he teases, and I bat him lightly on his arm.
“Look, I need to find a way to show her I’m here because I love you and I’m totally worthy of you.”
“Brady, you are more than worthy of me. I’m the one grateful to have you in my life.”
I melt a little at his words, but I don’t let them distract me. Well, not until we’ve had a really good make out session for a while, anyway.
Eventually, I pull away from him with as much reluctance as a naughty kid called in to see the principal. “I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Jilly for a post-falling-in-the-toilet-disaster debrief, as long as I’m happy to “muck out” her horses. Whatever that means.”