**

JANUARY

For the last thirty days, I've been dealing with the most unbearable anxiety.

Not because of everything that happened in December—I have been seeing a therapist for almost an entire month who has helped me tremendously with correctly channeling my feelings about everything that happened to me; Sebastian promised to talk to someone if I did, so we're both making weekly visits to shrinks.

It isn't work, either. Work has been "relatively" normal ever since I returned to my apartment and eventually got back into my routine. The ideal reasons aren't the reasons at all. The real reason involves a man that I can't seem to get enough of—a man that seems to always spiral my life out of control:

Sebastian and I have been hooking up since late December, and I'm terrified that the press will find out.

Claire has an idea about us messing around, undoubtedly. I invited her to talk about her "relationship" with Sebastian and how to go forward with it, but her manager has made it abundantly clear that Claire wants nothing to do with me. Of course, I'm no longer her publicist, but I'm still Sebastian's publicist, therefore, she's still technically my problem. This fake relationship has made Sebastian's name calm and unsuspecting in the tabloids, and my goal is to keep it this way. However, this is harder to achieve than it sounds; Claire and Sebastian don't even like being in the same room together, and Claire has been sleeping around with countless guys herself.

I've been involved in this horrible line of communication with Sarah, Claire's manager, and Claire's "talent team." Together, we've set up appearances that Claire and Sebastian have had to make together to make their fake love believable. The public widely approves, so if said public found out that Sebastian Harrison has been screwing his publicist, I'd be crucified.

Sex has taken up most of our time together; Sebastian has been busy traveling for Harrison Inc. and "other" matters, and whenever I do see him, we're working or doing press appearances. There's no room for a dinner under the stars or movie dates, considering he has a fake girlfriend and happens to be one of the most talked-about celebrities in Hollywood, in addition to being the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar company.

You're overthinking again, Leslie.

Right. Bottom line, Sebastian and I are basically friends with benefits—fuck buddies. How do I feel about this? I hate it. In truth, I'm envious of Claire and the "fake" dates she gets to spend with Sebastian. I have to remind myself constantly that it's for the best and that what Sebastian and I are doing can't go beyond sex like he and I initially wanted before the Christmas party shooting. Every day when I wake up, every sentence of every pitch and email I write, and every minute I have to sit through in meetings about Claire and Sebastian and how much the public loves them, I have to remind myself that it's for the best. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I said yes to Venetia, but whenever I think this, I again remind myself, "it's for the best."

But the best fucking sucks.

**

I wake up in a bed that isn't mine. A soft bed—large, with a decorative headboard. The curtains are drawn across the room, the same color as the sheets I'm tangled in—white. "Hotel white" as Sebastian calls it.

The time is a quarter before 10 AM, and Sebastian and I are both up. I put on my jeans and my bra, and Sebastian watches me, still naked underneath the blanket. I look over my shoulder at him, and he chuckles when I frown playfully.

"Shouldn't you be getting dressed?" I tell him, grabbing my blouse from the floor.

"I have all the time in the world."

"Actually, you don't. You have lunch with that European broker guy, remember?"

He remembers. He only wishes he had all the time in the world.

I sit on the edge of the bed and put on my shoes. Sebastian leans over, pulling my back into his chest so he can easily kiss on my neck. A weakness of mine; he knows all of my sensual weaknesses, which works against me when I'm trying to be responsible.

"Check-out isn't until 1," he says into my ear.

"Your lunch is at one," I laugh, sighing at the feeling of his soft lips on my skin. He kisses my jaw, moving up to my ear and biting it gently. I'm wet all over again in a matter of seconds.

"Just ten more minutes?" he says in a begging tone, his arms tightening around my waist.

"Only ten?"

"I can do a lot to you in ten minutes." His voice, deep and rugged in my ear, makes it even harder to resist. But I remember how hard it will be to sneak out of the hotel—from the penthouse suite—the longer the day drags on. I want to say yes and stay. God, I want to say yes a thousand times. But I can't.

I snake out of his hold and toss him his clothes. "I can't, Sebastian. I don't want to risk it, you know?"

His face falls. The smile he then gives me is dispirited. "Yeah, I know."

I pause like I'll change my mind, but as I continue to button my blouse, I know I won't; we both know. Sebastian rolls over and gets out of bed. He stretches when his feet are on the floor, his hands in the air, eventually falling into his hair as he lets out a relieved moan. I look at his body and the muscles of his back contort as he does this. I stare at him, from his shoulders all the way down to his legs. I do this a lot after we have sex—I stare at his body, at him, and wonder how I could have possibly been lucky enough to have sex with a man like him. It isn't a good thing to do to my self-esteem, but I just can't help but wonder.

I teeter on the thoughts that want to become words, but these thoughts end up winning. "Want to come over tonight?" I ask him.

"I can't." He doesn't even look at me. Rubbing his neck is more important than eye contact. "I'm going out with some friends."

"Oh, really?" My smile is a pathetic excuse for one. "You never told me that."

"I must have forgotten." He actually faces me completely now, unashamed of the full-frontal view he's giving me. "But we have that meeting with Claire's manager tomorrow, right?"

"Right. Tomorrow morning."

"I'll see you then."

It's happening again—what I shouldn't say is teasing my tongue. I know it will get me in trouble, but I can't help it. As he walks to the bathroom, I blurt out:

"If I had agreed to stay the extra ten minutes, would you have been free to come over tonight?"

He stops mid-stride. I regret what I said the minute it comes out of my mouth. He pivots, his facial expression puzzled and clearly offended.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

I shrug. "Nothing. It's just your mood kind of changed when I said that I couldn't stay a little longer."

"So, you're accusing me of lying because you wouldn't have sex with me again?"

"That's not what I said."

"But that's what it sounded like."

I don't know what to say. I can't admit that what I said made me sound like a bitch, but we're both aware of it.

"I know that what we're doing is...complicated," I tell him. "But I'm looking out for your best interest. When I say I can't stay, it's—"

"Hold on," Sebastian says. He's pissed, but he's hiding it—hiding it underneath a very thin layer of self-control. "We both knew what we were getting into when we started fucking around. Yeah, sometimes it sucks, but it is what it is. When I say that I'm busy tonight, I'm actually busy tonight, Leslie. I'm not slighting you."

"I know. I just want you to understand that there are certain limitations that I have to place on what we're doing in order to protect your image. I'm still your publicist."

"I know," he says. I can tell he wanted to say something else, but "I know" is what he decided on in order to get me to shut up. And by the way he stands—by the way he looks at me—it's as if he's waiting for me to leave.

Good job, Leslie. Good job at fucking up again.

I leave without saying anything else. Out the door, into the hall, in the elevator and into the lobby, I can't get the image of Sebastian's face out of my mind—the way he looked at me, as if I wasn't "Leslie" anymore, but someone else.

Walking through the lobby, I see the TV playing in the bar area. It's on TMZ, and Harvey Levin starts the segment talking about Sebastian and Claire during an outing they were pictured at—an outing I orchestrated for them.

I have this sudden urge to throw something at the television screen.

**

I get up at the sound of my alarm the next morning. There's a slight excitement in me when I wake up and check my phone, because every morning, Sebastian sends me a "good morning" text message. However, this morning, I get nothing from him. In fact, I've gotten no text or call from him since our discussion in the hotel room yesterday. I lock my phone and focus on getting dressed instead.

I decide on something simple but professional—grey pencil skirt, white button-down blouse and black heels. My hair is tied up in a bun; I look in the mirror and see a "me" I haven't seen in a very long time. I don't know how I should welcome this familiar face.

When I check myself out, I groan when I realize that my panty line is noticeably visible underneath my skirt. I sigh, looking through my drawer only to find that I don't have any more clean thongs, and of course, I don't have time to wash any.

Wear a different skirt, my sub-conscience suggests, but I decide not to look through my wardrobe again. Instead, I go commando. Slipping my underwear off and feeling "nothing" down there is liberating. Scandalous, but liberating. An uplifting feeling from the unsettling feeling I had waking up and getting no text from Sebastian.

After saying goodbye to Pedro, I leave my apartment and drive over to Harrison incorporated. I go over my notes as I park in the garage and enter the elevator. Of course, the notes I have in mind are topics her talent team and Sebastian's team have already covered over and over again, but it doesn't hurt to always be prepared. I expect the same evil glare Claire gives me at every meeting, and I expect her manager to throw passive aggressive jabs at me every time she speaks. It's actually therapeutic, knowing that these meetings are formulaic and without curveballs.

When I get off on the 8th floor, Claire and her talent team are already in the meeting room. I see them sitting around the table, Sebastian and Sarah approach the door from the other side of the hall.

"Hey, Leslie," Sarah says to me when we're both in front of the door.

"Good morning, Sarah." I smile closed-mouthed at her, and when I look at Sebastian, it fades slightly. "Good morning, Sebastian."

"Good morning." His tone isn't malicious like I expected. I have this small hope in me that he isn't mad or upset. Maybe he's keeping up this act since Sarah is around; she doesn't know that him and I have been sleeping together. Every time we're around her, we keep it placid and professional. I remember this and lose any hope of a tension between he and I being non-existent.

"Let's go inside," I say. Sarah opens the door, and immediately Claire and her talent team stop talking and stare at us. Sarah enters, and I follow. Before even sitting down, I feel a hand squeeze my ass. I jump a little, turning my head to find Sebastian doing a horrible job suppressing the small smirk on his face.

"Stop it," I whisper to him while we take our seats, but the red hue surfacing on my face makes it hard for him to take me seriously. I look around, my heart pounding at the thought of someone having seen Sebastian grope me, but no one looks as if they saw. Usually I like when he grabs my ass, even with people around despite the risk of someone seeing, but this time, it confuses me. No morning text message, no discreet "wink" upon seeing each other, and suddenly he's touching me as if nothing is wrong.

Sarah and I sit on either side of Sebastian while Claire and her talent team sit on the other side of the large table. Claire locks eyes with me, her gaze burning like a blue fire; a damning storm. I expected as much.

Her manager starts speaking first. "Thank you for coming to this meeting this morning. I think we can skip the pleasantries and start with the schedule that I have laid out for Claire and Sebastian for the month of February, it being of the most importance considering next month is Valentine's Day."

She looks at me with the most condescending expression: next month is Valentine's Day, but I don't expect you to remember since you most likely have no reason to,is what she wanted to say. I roll my eyes and start making notes on my laptop. Her voice starts to tune out as I grow more invested in the rhythm of typing, but a feeling on my thigh brings me out of my computer. A hand, warm and rough, rests on my thigh underneath the hem of my skirt. I stop typing and stare forward for a moment before looking to my right. Sebastian looks at Claire's manager as if he's interested in what she's saying while his hand gently rubs the skin of my leg.

Breathe, Leslie. Breathe.

I know I should move his hand. I know I should tell him to stop; I should tell him that he's being an idiot for doing this during a meeting with his fake girlfriend across the table with her talent team and his manager on his other side, both parties oblivious to what we've been doing together. I should tell him all of this, but I don't. I just sit still and hate how much I love the feeling of his hand on my leg.

"...social media polls...one-hundred thousand likes on Sebastian's picture..."

The words break apart the higher his hand moves. My heart beats with a forbidden anticipation as his thumb lightly presses against the flesh of my inner thigh. Suddenly, my eyes widen when I remember that I'm not wearing underwear.

This isn't fucking happening.

His hand finally—or unfortunately—reaches the spot between my legs that I shouldn't have let him get to. His hand stops moving when he gets there; I suck in a sharp breath when I feel his fingers touch me, my mouth slightly agape to take in as much air as I think I'll need. I look around, everyone's eyes on their laptops or on Claire's manager speaking. I look at Sarah; she's invested in the statistics, not even paying Sebastian and I any mind. Lastly, I look at Sebastian. My expression is one of guilt. Should I feel guilty for not wearing panties today? Maybe. Either way, I feel ashamed and dirty. However, Sebastian feels the opposite on my decision to go commando. He's quite surprised, hence the freeze in his hand's movement. However, the slight gleam in his green eyes—the arch in his brow, the bite of his lip, the eventual tick in his jaw—drowns out his surprise to make room for excitement. I turn away, embarrassed and flush-faced. My better judgment kicks in, leading me to grab his wrist and move him away, but his fingers slowly slide inside of me the moment I grab his hand.

"...three months...a week in Texas with her family..."

My chest caves in on itself. The room, once a comfortable temperature, is now at least one hundred degrees. My legs are shaking as he continues to finger me underneath the fucking table. I want to moan out. Badly. And as I use every bit of my willpower to keep myself composed, Sebastian looks ahead at Claire's talent team as if the sin he's committing underneath the table isn't even happening.

"Sebastian..." I whisper, quiet enough to make a mouse envious. The words that are supposed to come after his name never arrive—the "stop" or "don't stop" are non-existent, leaving him wondering what I want him to do next. Eventually, I can't even speak anymore. I just rest my elbows on the table, cover my gaping mouth with my hand, and close my eyes as he moves faster. I know I'm going to come, and I'm embarrassed and turned on at the same time. Every passing second, I get closer and closer to climax. As I nearly arrive, I let go of all resistance and let it happen, and it does. Greatly so. Sebastian knows; he knows my body well. He slides his fingers out of me when he realizes that his work is done.

I open my eyes and can't even move; I'm mortified that I let this happen. This mortification turns into anger; a completely different emotion from the euphoria I just went through. And when I turn to look at Sebastian, he knows I'm pissed. His hand completely retracts away from me, the innocence in his face failing at suppressing my growing anger.

"Any questions?" Claire's manager finishes. And for once, I don't have any.

**

"What the hell was that!?"

What a stupid question—Sebastian fingered me during a business meeting, that's what that was. But in the private and isolated setting of Sebastian's office, I want to hear Sebastian's logic behind his actions.

When the meeting was (thankfully) over, I told Sarah that I needed to talk to Sebastian in private. He knew exactly what it was about; he had this smug look on his face the entire journey up to his office. And now that we're here, the smug look isn't gone. He looks proud of himself. That, or as if he doesn't care. He paces around, his long legs slowly moving one in front of the other, his hand in the pockets of his pants.

"You're mad, aren't you?" is the first thing he says, smiling. I don't know how to accurately process what I'm seeing.

"Sebastian, you fingered me in the middle of the fucking meeting. Why would you do that? What if someone saw you?!"

"Leslie, come on—"

"Don't talk to me like I'm being irrational!" I yell at him. He's taken back, eyebrows raised in a stunned fashion. The smile is gone.

He doesn't say anything, only looks at me continuously like a constant stare is going to make me forget what happened. Eventually, he stares out of the wide windows, looking at the tall buildings and the endless metropolitan expanse before him.

"Is this about the other day?" I ask him. "In the hotel room?"

"No," he laughs. "I was just...I was being stupid. I didn't think you'd be this upset about it."

"Why wouldn't you think I'd be upset, Sebastian?"

"Jesus, I don't know."

"There's something you're not telling me. We agreed to be honest with each other—"

"Well, you know what? I agree to a lot of things I don't seem to commit to."

I don't understand. I want to, but I can't. It's clear he's conflicted; he knows how I feel about him being closed off.

He sighs, rubbing his eyes and finally making eye contact that doesn't seem like he couldn't care less. "The only reason I agreed to date Claire was for you. It was for you, and those photos they had of us, and a whole bunch of other shit."

I nod, knowing this information already. "Right. That risk still exists, Sebastian. Garrett—"

"I know, Leslie. I know my father is fucking crazy and I know that he could still release those photos. But after dealing with Alejandro last year and...and Salvador and your grandmother, it's made me realize that we'll always have a target on our backs, no matter what we do."

I have to think about his words for a moment. I knew this fact about always having targets on our backs, but it was something that lingered in the back of my mind—something I didn't want to face.

"What are you saying?" I ask him.

"I'm saying that you were right. What happened at the hotel pissed me off because it made me realize just how selfish I am. I want you all the time. I-I want to be