Page 30 of A Cold Hard Truth

“Yes.” He threw his hands up, letting them land on the cool iron arms of the chair.

Remington raised his glass, the rim hovering barely before his damp lower lip. He hesitated, then made contact, tipping back the smallest swallow of Sauvignon Blanc into his mouth.

“That didn’t sound like an apology to me,” Remington said, his voice barely louder than a whisper but brokering no argument. “Did you want to try again?”

“Remington,” he whispered.

The waitress came, set down the watermelon and balsamic salad between them and went away.

“Yes?”

“I am sorry,” Sebastian said.

He was sorry, and he was fucked.

Chapter Nine

Remington has a Crush

Remington was sure he’d walked into an electrical force field of some kind when he sat down with Sebastian. Every hair on his arms stood at attention, pulling him toward the man on the other side of the table. Sebastian had a mouth on him, he had for as long as Remington had known him, but something about the way he was engaging Remington now was different than before. He got the distinct feeling Sebastian wanted to be dressed down, to be taken apart. He wanted to be made to feel like he’d done wrong, when in fact…

All Sebastian had done was be himself.

“Apology accepted,” Remington said, needing to put a stop to whatever was happening between them.

Sebastian’s downcast stare and crimson cheeks had Remington thinking things he had no right thinking. It was ludicrous for him to think about Sebastian the way he was. Jace may have not been familiar with the kind of men Sebastian and Callahan were, but Remington knew the type all too well. The spoiled expectation and indifference… Remington had barely survived growing up in the depths of that social structure. He had no interest in diving back into it.

Sebastian blinked up at him, swallowing thickly.

Remington picked up his fork and stabbed at a piece of watermelon on the plate between them.

“Please eat, Sebastian,” he said, putting the cold chunk of watermelon against his tongue.

“I didn’t mean to imply…”

“Sebastian,” he interrupted. “Have some salad.”

Sebastian picked up his fork and speared a piece of melon, raising it carefully to his mouth. Remington, like a fool, watched him. He saw the way Sebastian’s hand trembled, the way his lips parted, the way his tongue peeked out just enough to make room for the juicy piece of fruit.

Remington set down his fork and downed a healthy swallow of his wine.

The tension in the air between them was new, and it was thick. Thick with promise and expectation, but more importantly, with secrets.

Until that moment, Remington’s life had been a series of accidents. He’d been born into money by no doing—or fault—of his own, ended up in private school as a result of said wealth. He’d found himself hiding in the library with black eyes and tear-stained cheeks, desperate for a place that could shelter him from the cruel mouths and sharp fingers of the boys he went to school with. He could have just as easily hidden in a broom closet and maybe then he would have found himself growing up to become a janitor. But that hadn’t been his life.

The librarian had taken pity on him, taught him the Dewey decimal system, given him books to shelve to pass the time. Remington had been given a project, a task, and in it he had found salvation. Even meeting Jace had been chance. A friend of a family member of a friend who didn’t have enough money when Remington had far too much. He’d never told Jace about his trust fund, about his life before. He’d told no one because he didn’t think himself to be a man like Callahan or Sebastian.

But sitting across the table from Sebastian St. George, with his coal-dark pupils and his shaking limbs, Remington wasn’t so sure.

“I understand far more about you than you think,” Remington said, pushing the cubes of watermelon around the plate with the tines of his fork. “You don’t need to apologize.”

“It was…” Sebastian frowned. “I was talking out of my ass.”

Remington snorted and leaned back in his chair.

“You were,” he agreed, rolling his eyes at the sharp look Sebastian gave him. “You know what I do. Now tell me, what do you do?”

“Not much,” Sebastian admitted with a shrug. “I’m on the board for the college.”