The Hardest Fall (Roadmap to Your Heart Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Sorry, my bad. I thought maybe you’d want to hook up again. Last time, we—”
    “I said move along,” I reiterated, not wanting him to finish that sentence. I attempted to tamp down my mortification at having ever hooked up with him at all.
    I noticed how Sebastian rose from his seat like some knight in shining armor to save me. I appreciated the effort, but a queen could handle herself. “Unless you want me to rip off your balls and stuff them down your throat, I suggest you catch a clue.”
    Sebastian seemed to rock back on his heels as if uncomfortable and maybe even disappointed by the interaction, though I couldn’t quite read him.
    Before I knew what was happening, one of our security personnel from the stage had come up behind the man and was attempting to escort him out. No doubt Maurice had sent him over. The guy became a spectacle with his arms flailing and his voice yelling out how sorry he was. “Frieda, please, I love you. I’ll behave, just let me stay.”
    I watched helplessly as Sebastian threw his money down on the bar top to cash out. “If you need those shoes stretched, you know where to find us.”

7
    Tate
    T he following morning I couldn’t stop thinking about Sebastian as I dragged my laptop over the comforter and rested it on my knees. I couldn’t shake the image of him being some old school shoe-repair guy rather than an uptight businessman. The juxtaposition was so strange and certainly piqued my interest, especially the way he had stood up, ready to defend my integrity at the bar.
    I couldn’t help wondering what he would’ve done had security not escorted the guy out. Of course, I could’ve handled the dude all on my own but imagining Sebastian’s bulky forearms taking a swing in my honor was a huge turn-on.
    I logged onto my social media accounts and then clicked over to my Etsy page, noticing I had a couple more T-shirt orders to fill today.
    My roommate, Tori, knocked briefly on the door before bouncing into the room and sinking down on the bed. She was fresh from the shower and wearing her fluffy pink terry cloth robe.
    “How are the pumps working out?” She was an assistant to one of the editors in the New York Times style section and the couple of occasions I’d met her for lunch at work, I had seen that huge designer castoff closet near her cubicle, the one they used for photo shoots.
    “Ugh,” I said, wiggling my toes, which were peeking out of the covers. “You see that blister forming on my big toe?”
    “Bummer. Designer shoes should not pinch,” she said, scrunching her cute button nose. “They cost an arm and a leg.”
    “Tell me about it.” I threw off the covers, stood up in my striped boxer shorts and reached for my white tee. She had seen me in the buff more than once over the years so it was no big thing.
    Tori followed me to a small table set up near the sofa, which I turned into a makeshift area about once a week for mock-ups of my designs. I didn’t need a lot of space for my business, just plenty of imagination, which I had in abundance.
    I used to make screen-print designs in North Carolina when I had more room to work with in my spacious apartment. Nothing was spacious in Manhattan, unless you had the cash to dole out for an apartment in one of those luxurious buildings with a view. Like the one my mother currently lived in with her husband, George.
    For now, I created simple graphic tees using the World Wide Web even though I missed the creative side of inventing my own designs. But paints were messy and the process involved several steps including drying time. Once the stencil was made it was all about color and light and fabric placement. The constant clean-up was sure to drive both of us mad. Or at least me, since I was the neat freak in this place.
    “So guess what?” Tori asked, sinking down on the edge of the couch and propping her feet on the coffee table.
    “You and Richard finally sealed the deal?” I asked with a smirk, while I