Page 56 of Bid For Me
Now, with all the spotlights and things in there, it feels more like a mini-museum than a wardrobe.
No time to shove the boxes of shoes out of my lounge though, because in way too short a time, Seb is pushing my front door open with a cheery ‘hello’.
Sebastian’s casual “Hello” reaches me before he steps through the door, and his voice rolls over me, warm and familiar, yet somehow grating. He shuts the door behind him and strolls in with that trademark confidence, his gaze sweeping over the room – and the stacks of shoeboxes filling my living room – with an unmistakable grin on his face.
“Did you like your gift?” he asks, a proud, almost excited smile lighting up his face.
I give him my best unamused glare, crossing my arms and resting my hands on the top box.
Mixed emotions swirl in my churning gut. I know this could be seen by many as a really lovely, grand gesture, but the slightly smug smile on Sebastian’s face sets me on edge.
“Are you serious? You’re trying to impress me with shoes I already own? Really, Seb?”
He laughs, seemingly unbothered by my tone, the excitement still bright in his eyes. “Well, I remembered you liked them. Youknow, Louboutins, fancy heels, designer brands…” He gestures loosely at the boxes like he’s brought me some kind of treasure haul. “Figured you could never have too many and I wanted to get you a nice gift. Take it as an apology for earlier.”
My jaw tightens as I stare at him. Does he seriously think I’m so easy to buy off with shoes I don’t even need? Does he not know me at all? Anactualapology would mean so much more to me.
“Seb, stop trying to buy me things,” I say, my words clipped, almost biting. “I’m not impressed.”
One of his brows rises, surprise colouring his expression. “You’re not?”
“Not one bit,” I snap.
Without another word, I grab his arm and steer him toward the hallway. If he’s going to try to ‘impress’ me, he’s in for a wake-up call. I march him straight down the hall and into my closet, flipping on the lights with a flourish.
The room glows as the recessed lighting illuminates shelves and rows of pristine shoes, clothes, and purses, each item perfectly displayed. The Louboutins my godfathers gifted me are right here, lined up in all their red-bottomed glory. “See?” I say, gesturing toward my display of heels. “I already have them all, thanks.”
He lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed, and runs his finger along one of the shelves, his eyes travelling from row to never-ending row. “This place is…wow,” he says, sounding almost awed. “Honestly, I didn’t have you down assucha shoe fanatic.”
“Please, I have two famous shoe designers for godfathers, and they like to compete with one another for my affection. They don’t need to know I’m happier barefoot or in fluffy socks.”
I cross my arms, huffing as I watch him wander through the space, his gaze lingering a little too long on my meticulouslyorganised collection. “Anyway, now you know. Maybe next time, you’ll put a little more thought into your ‘impressive’ gift. I’d have been happier with a chocolate bar.”
He’s quiet for a beat, his expression shifting as he moves past the shoes and turns his attention to a lower shelf filled with my most beloved, worn books. My heart races. Shit. I didn’t mean for him to find those.
“Seb—”
He reaches down, his fingers tracing over a small stack of well-loved paperbacks – spines creased, pages yellowed, some with a few suspicious coffee stains. A look of mock horror crosses his face as he picks one up and flips through it, brow furrowing.
“Seriously, Elle?” he says, half-laughing, half…disgusted? I prickle. “I thought you’d have…you know, classics. Not these steamy paperbacks. This is porn.”
I snatch the book out of his hand, nostrils flaring. “They’re classics tome, thank you very much.” I hug the book protectively, shooting him a defiant look. “Besides, I like second-hand books. I like imagining the lives of the readers as much as the characters.”
He lets out an amused scoff, pulling another book off the shelf and flipping through its dog-eared pages. “So you’re saying you like your books a little…rough around the edges?” He lifts an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.
I frown, shrugging. “Maybe. It adds to the charm.” Then, deciding to toy with him a little, I lean in just a little closer, lowering my voice as I add, “I mean, who knows, maybe some people even read these books one-handed.”
He blinks, momentarily confused, and I hold his gaze before slowly running my finger down the spine of the book in an exaggerated motion. I raise an eyebrow, a challenging glint in my eye, as realisation dawns on his face.
His expression changes, his eyes darkening, lingering on me in a way that sends an unexpected thrill down my spine.
But then he breaks the moment, turning away to scan the rest of the shelf.
He reaches for another book – one of my all-time favourites, with a tattered spine that’s practically held together by sheer willpower – and opens it. A few of the pages slip free, fluttering to the floor. I have to resist the urge to cry. He picks one up delicately, holding it up between two fingers with a slightly disgusted look.
“This one’s barely hanging on,” he murmurs, inspecting the worn, loose pages. “You know, it might be time to…upgrade. Get a Kindle or something.”
I feel a prickle of irritation, and my smile fades. “It’s fine. I like it that way.”