Page 54 of A Cold Hard Truth

“We can go,” Remington offered.

“But you won’t.” Callahan grinned as the server appeared and set their food down. Jace had ordered him French toast as he’d asked, and Remington looked down at Sebastian’s plate, finding avocado toast with an over easy egg.

“Since when do you eat healthy breakfasts?” Callahan asked, finishing his drink.

“Same time since I quit drinking before noon,” Sebastian answered.

Two sets of eyes landed on Remington and he sliced into his French toast with the side of his fork.

“What?”

“Maybe you will be good for him.”

“Sebastian’s his own man,” Remington said, shoving a forkful of eggy bread into his mouth.

Sebastian was his own man, but he excelled at doing what he was told, and Remington loved to tell him what to do. As he chewed, he thought about his promise in the bathroom. Blindfold or restraint, and in truth, he wanted to do both. He wanted the chance to keep himself hidden from the weight of Sebastian’s appraisal as he learned his way around the man’s body, but on the other hand, he wanted Sebastian to watch. To see him move and touch and learn, to see himself taken apart. To see the way Sebastian, in his mere presence, tore Remington to shreds.

It was a good thing, he thought, watching Sebastian sprinkle salt onto his egg while laughing at something Callahan or Jace had said. If he wanted to find himself, to understand himself, he couldn’t do that with walls up, he couldn’t do that behind his books with his gloves on. Remington needed Sebastian to tear him down as much as Sebastian needed Remington to build him up.

He prayed he could manage the challenge.

Chapter Sixteen

Sebastian is a Disaster

“Toast and eggs. Coffee,” Sebastian muttered to himself as he dropped two slices of wheat bread into his toaster the following Wednesday. He dragged his finger across the screen of his phone, reading the message from Remington to make sure he hadn’t missed any instructions.

He poured coffee into one of his plain, white mugs, and sat at the breakfast bar while he waited for the toast to darken thoroughly. He hadn’t seen Remington since Sunday, but the space hadn’t worried him. They were new to each other, and new to being with a man, and there was a lot to navigate. Sebastian understood their relationship was a minefield, but after years of doing what—and who—people expected of him, he was hesitant to worry too much about that.

Maybe the decisions that had brought him to that point were a blessing in disguise. His toast popped up, and he slipped off the stool to butter it, wondering what he would have thought of Remington and their relationship if this had been two years earlier, or even five.

Unwanted, his brother's voice battered around his brain, and he pressed too hard, the jagged edges of his butter knife gouging into the toast. He threw the knife on the counter and muttered a curse, then checked his phone a third time to ensure he’d gotten everything right. As he swiped the screen, it lit up with an incoming call, the childhood photo of him and Rhys filling the screen. Reluctantly, he accepted it.

“Were your ears burning?” he greeted.

Rhys made a sound. “Someone is always talking about me somewhere.”

“You sound like that’s a good thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“What do you want, Rhys?” He sighed and picked up his knife, buttering the other piece of toast with more attention than the first.

“Were you talking about me?” Rhys asked, amusement coloring his voice.

“No. Just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Do you really care?” Sebastian took the toast back to the counter and sat down, shoving a bite into his mouth to avoid having to answer whatever Rhys asked next.

“I’m wounded, Sebastian.”

He swallowed, the rough grains of the wheat toast abrading his throat. “What do you want, Rhys? Are you calling to brag about a new endowment or about sleeping with my ex-wife?”

“What?”

“Either is predictable,” he continued. “But have you slept with my ex-wife?”