Page 29 of A Cold Hard Truth

Sebastian turned his stare toward the ice cubes in his water glass, and he wondered if Remington had always been this way. He knew he’d always had a bit of a crush on the other man, but their engagements had been minor, their conversations only shallow and in passing. Remington had been the kind of man Sebastian fantasized about at night, not the kind of man he had a chance with.

Remington so carelessly putting brief hints of himself on display was a cruel thing for Sebastian to have to endure, but he couldn’t rescind the lunch invitation now that Remington had already ordered.

“I can cancel it,” Remington offered.

Sebastian cleared his throat and blinked. “I’m sorry. I… I wasn’t here. Cancel what?”

Remington tilted his head to the side. “The wine. If you’re not drinking?”

“It’s fine.” Sebastian waved him off. “Not on my account. Besides, I’ve already had a glass today anyway.”

“Old habits die hard?”

“Something like that,” he said.

“So, what have you been up to, Sebastian? Last time I saw you, you accused me of being a beggar.”

“Panhandler,” he corrected, even though it didn’t matter. “And I was speaking of your boss, not you.”

“Do you think I don’t have aspirations for his job one day?”

“I don’t think you do.” Sebastian moved his hands under the table, making fists and digging his nails into his sweaty palms.

The waitress returned with a bottle of wine and she poured them both glasses before disappearing back into the restaurant. Remington raised his in a toast.

“To anything other than vodka,” he said, a small laugh huffing out of him as he undoubtedly remembered the last meal they’d shared together and the aftermath of it.

“The day is young.” Sebastian raised his glass.

“That hasn’t stopped you before.” Remington lifted his glass to his mouth and took a small drink before setting the wine down in front of him. He curled his fingers around the stem and looked up at Sebastian, the weight of his attention heavy. “Why don’t you think I want his job?”

“Does he get to play with books all day?”

“You think I play?” Remington raised one of his hands and wiggled his fingers, studying his palm, turning it under observation.

“I think you create things,” Sebastian rasped. “I think you save.”

He hated how true he hoped those words to be.

“You’re not wrong.” Remington lowered his hand back to the stem of his wine glass. “I restore and preserve early American literature, but you do know that, don’t you?”

Sebastian froze, then snapped out of it, pouring a healthy swallow of wine into his mouth.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Tamerlane.”

“A box of books from the college,” Sebastian countered, hoping to dismiss the impact of the initial donation. “Ananonymousdonation. But since you apparently know, they looked old and tattered. I’m glad the museum could do something with them.”

“You didn’t know me then,” Remington said.

“I didn’t,” he confirmed.

“I’ve been working on one of them,” Remington continued, “at least, I was until I had to stop and panhandle.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Remington.” He shoved his fingers into his hair and leaned back in the chair, certain Remington would never let him live down the grossly unfair characterization. “I spoke out of turn.”

“Are you trying to apologize?”