Page 32 of A Cold Hard Truth

Remington poured him some more wine and set the bottle back in the ice bucket then pushed the plate forward.

“You can have the rest,” he said.

Sebastian’s mouth hung part way open and he nodded, picking up his fork and using the edge to cut a particularly large piece of watermelon in two.

“I appreciate what you do,” Sebastian said after a small silence had settled between them. “For work, I mean.”

“You don’t strike me as the books type.”

“I’m not.” Sebastian gave him an embarrassed smile. “There’s lots of things I don’t like that I can still appreciate.”

“Such as?”

“Art,” he answered with a scoff.

“Not a fan?”

“It’s always seemed so pretentious.”

“You’vealways seemed to pretentious,” Remington said.

“I resent that.”

“I’ve heard about your brother,” Remington said carefully, dragging the pad of his finger up and down the stem of his wineglass. He blinked slowly, nearly missing the way Sebastian’s eyes tracked his movement.

“He’s an asshole,” Sebastian muttered.

“He is. But just because you’re not like him doesn’t mean you’re not pretentious.”

“I can’t help the way I was raised.”

“Can’t you?” Remington arched a brow. “I can. Icould. I did.”

“There’s so many expectations.”

Sebastian’s voice came so softly, Remington wondered if Sebastian had meant the comment for him or for his thoughts alone. He didn’t answer it, instead waited to see what happened next.

He was met with a long sigh and a slump of Sebastian’s shoulders, downcast eyes, and long blond lashes that fanned out and faded against his cheeks. Remington had to look away, had to sit on his hands, because something changed in that moment.

Remington found so much of himself in Sebastian. That aching need to be enough, to be accepted. He saw the way Sebastian was near wild with desperation to buck the expectations that came with having a name and a trust fund… things Remington was all too familiar with because he’d done them himself. The mere fact Sebastian could restrain the fight inside of him spoke volumes to his character, to his strength, and Remington thought he might have misjudged the man.

“It’s hard,” Remington finally offered. “I know.”

Sebastian’s chin wavered, then one of his cheeks hollowed, like he was biting on it. A beat passed, the moment passed, and Sebastian reached for his wine, taking a large swallow. Another beat, then he looked up at Remington, the barest hint of his trepidation visible behind those long and curled lashes.

“You were a lot nicer before, you know,” Sebastian said, flash of his familiar self returning to his eyes.

Whatever the moment had been or whatever it meant, it had passed, and Remington let out a long breath.

“When?” he asked, taking the bait.

“Last weekend when you brought me home.”

“I wasn’t nice,” Remington said. “You were drunk.”

“You were nice. Youarenice.”

“So I’m told.”