chapter 23
Sebastian
IT ONLY TAKES US ABOUT ten minutes to get to Remi’s place after leaving Whole Foods.
It’s away from the Strip, and the housing community is dim and quiet, with only the occasional car passing by as we move slowly under the bands of streetlight, then pull up a driveway and into a clean one-car garage attached to a condo.
My garage is crammed with surfboards and random shit I’ve collected over the years, but hers looks clean enough that we could probably have a picnic in it.
As Remi turns off the Jeep and the garage door closes behind us, she shifts to look at me, and there’s a sort of nervous anticipation in the way she grips the steering wheel, shoulders tight.
I let out a small laugh. “Are you okay?”
She bites her lip again—it’s really distracting—then nods once. “Yeah. It’s just . . .” Remi releases the tight hold on the steering wheel to tuck a strand of hair behind her pierced ear. “I’ve never had a guy over. Not since I bought the place.”
There’s that kick drum in my chest again. I try not to let the pleasant surprise show on my face. “Really?”
She nods once. “It’s . . . private, you know?”
My gaze flicks to the door leading into the house. The garage door light is still on overhead, casting everything in a warm yellow glow. “We don’t have to,” I say. “If you’d rather not—”
“No.” Her quick response drags my gaze back to hers. She still looks nervous, but there’s a steady conviction in her eyes too. “I want to.”
Heat creeps through my chest. I reach out to take her hand, then lift it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Okay. Let’s go make tacos, then. I’m starving.”
We grab the grocery bags from the back; for now, I leave my travel bag in the Jeep.
Just because Remi invited me over for dinner doesn’t mean she’s going to ask me to stay, and I don’t want to make an ass out of myself by assuming she will.
I follow her up the few stairs to the door, and she bumps it open with her hip.
Then she throws a look back at me, like this is her last chance to send me packing.
I smile up at her, grocery bags in either hand, and finally, she smiles back—and leads me into her condo.
She peels her sneakers off and puts them in the closet, so I do the same, then trail after her as she leads the way to the kitchen.
Everything is clean and minimal, with a white-and-cream color scheme.
The condo smells good too, like lemon, and I take a deep breath of it as I set the grocery bags onto the white kitchen counter.
So, this is where she stood eating pizza that night we FaceTimed.
Slowly, my gaze slides down the hallway to an open door.
Is that where the bathtub is? I swallow hard at the memory of it.
Behind me, there’s the sound of a cap clinking onto the counter, and I turn to find that Remi has already opened a bottle of Corona for each of us.
“You like lime?” she asks.
“Hell yeah.”
Her smile is quick, but it still looks like tension is lingering behind her eyes. “Grab me one?”
“Sure.” I fish a lime out of the grocery bag, give it a quick wash in the sink, then toss it to her.
She snatches it out of the air with a light laugh; maybe if I can get her to laugh more, she’ll feel less stressed.
I pull the rest of the groceries out of the bags as she cuts us each a wedge and drops them into our bottles. Then she offers me one.
“Cheers,” she says.
I arch a brow, feeling the cool condensation clinging to the glass bottle. “To what?”
She twists her lips into a thoughtful expression, and it’s so fucking cute, I want to press my mouth to hers just to feel the shape of it. “To tacos,” she says at last. “And . . .” Her voice drops a bit. “To being here with you.”
With a grin, I clink my bottle against hers. “I’ll toast to you and tacos anytime.”
We both take a long drink. The Corona is cold and goes down smooth. Then I look around her condo and ask, “So, you wanna give me the grand tour?”
“There’s not much to see,” she says. “But sure.”
She walks me through the kitchen and living room, then down a hallway, which has three doors.
“Bathroom’s there,” she says.
Her gaze flicks to mine quickly. Is she thinking about that bath too? I still haven’t been able to get it out of my head.
Moving on, she opens the second door and pushes it wide, stepping through. “This is my pole room.”
The evening light turns everything yellow and gold, and her chrome pole gleams in the center of the room. There’s a couch set up against one wall, and I try not to picture myself sitting on it, watching her dance. Though that sounds like a really fucking good time.
Remi turns and walks me back to the hallway, to the last closed door. Her hand rests on the doorknob, hesitating. Then she takes a breath, turns the knob, and pushes the door open. “And here’s my bedroom.”
I ease up behind her and peek inside. A queen-size bed sits against one wall, flanked by matching bedside tables, each holding a small potted cactus and a lamp.
Her closet door is cracked, and through it, I can see rows of clothes and shoes.
And out the window, the sky looms big and blue, with the earliest colors of sunset starting to paint the horizon, stretching out over the city nestled in the desert.
My gaze flicks back to the bed. I take another drink of my beer, trying not to stare.
“This is a nice place,” I say, and I mean it. It feels like her: organized, minimalist, disciplined, like she doesn’t want anything in her space to cause her to feel cluttered or claustrophobic.
“Thanks. I bought it myself, so I’ve got a lot of pride in it.”
“I can tell,” I say, easing back from the open bedroom door, trying not to make her feel any more nervous than she already does.
“Where do you live?” she asks. “In LA?”
I shake my head as we walk back to the kitchen. “No, the city is too much for me. I’ve got a place in Malibu, just off Big Rock Beach.”
She looks at me, one brow arching slowly. “You have a house in Malibu?”
I shrug and take another sip from my beer. “Yeah. Why?”
Remi lets out a small laugh as she sets her beer down and washes her hands in the sink. “Sometimes I forget you’re a big rock star.”
Leaning back against her kitchen counter, I say, “Most of the time, I don’t feel like a rock star. I’m just me.”
She looks over at me, a sort of softness finally starting to come over her features. “That’s what I like about you.”
For a moment, I don’t say anything. She starts to organize ingredients for the tacos, and I watch her, thinking of what she said.
I’m used to people wanting to be around me just because I’m in LGC, or because I have money and they’re drawn to it, like sharks to blood. In the past, I’ve tried to keep people around me through my money: paying for everything, buying gifts, hoping maybe that’ll be enough. But it never is.
Yet Remi hasn’t asked me for anything. She even bought me dinner at Secret Pizza when we went on our first date. It’s . . . different. She’s different.
“Well, you gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna help me?” One of her brows arches as she pulls her long black hair into a ponytail.
I grin and push off the counter. “Put me to work, baby.”
Her eyes flash at the pet name, and she tosses me the avocados, laughing when I almost spill my beer trying to catch them. “Mash those up. We’re making guacamole.”
“These are the best tacos I’ve ever eaten,” I say, then take another big bite.
We’re sitting on Remi’s porch, each in a wicker armchair, our plates on the low outdoor table between us.
The air is still hot, but the sun is going down now, and watching the sun setting over the desert is definitely on my list of the top ten most beautiful things I’ve ever seen—though it doesn’t rank as high as Remi does.
She’s sitting cross-legged in her armchair, hair pulled back, a beer bottle pressed to her lips. The sunset makes her skin appear golden, the piercings in her ears glittering. Given how fucking gorgeous she is, I’m kind of shocked I’ve been able to focus on chewing and swallowing without choking.
But these tacos are out of this world.
I finish off the last two on my plate, then sit back in the armchair with a satisfied sigh. “Twelve out of ten,” I tell her. “How did you learn how to cook?”
She shrugs. “My dad taught me the basics when I was growing up. And when I started dancing, I realized how important it is to take care of my body, so I started learning how to meal prep and stuff. It’s something I enjoy.”
“I wish I enjoyed it,” I say, washing my tacos down with another swig of Corona.
“You did just fine helping me.” She tips her head at me.
“Yeah, well, that’s because I got to be with you.” Quieter, I say, “I’d cook every night if I got to do it with you.”
Her lips curve into a smile, and she finishes off her beer, then pushes up from her chair and says, “Help me with these?”
Immediately, I gather up our empty plates, then follow Remi back into the air-conditioned condo. While I put the plates in the kitchen, she grabs her phone to turn on some music.
“Any requests?” she asks.
“What vibe are we going for?”
She thinks for a second, then says, “Something chill.”
“Then I vote alt-J.”
A furrow crosses her brow, like she’s never heard of them. But she types something in on her phone, and a second later, “Tessellate” starts playing over her speaker system.
“Love this song,” I say.
Remi listens for about thirty seconds, then gives me an affirming nod. “I like this. It’s good.” She sets her phone down before joining me in the kitchen. “All right, I’ll wash, you dry. Deal?”
I nod. “Deal.”
While the music plays low from her speakers, we clean and dry the dishes, side by side at Remi’s kitchen skin. I bump her with my hip a few times, making her giggle. In return, she flicks water at me, and a droplet runs down the bridge of my nose before dripping onto the plate I’m drying.
“One last dish,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with her chin at the empty guacamole bowl.
I put the dishtowel down, then reach across the kitchen to grab the bowl. But instead of handing it to Remi, I ease up behind her, making her draw a small breath as I curve my body around hers and reach around her to rinse the bowl.
She’s so tiny, her head barely comes up to my collarbones. And she’s warm against me, like she carries the desert inside her veins.
“What are you doing?” she asks, voice lower now as the song changes to “Intro” by The xx.
I shrug. “We’re doing the dishes, remember?” I have to lean forward to grab the sponge, pressing my body more firmly against her back. Along the edge of the sink, her fingers curl, going tight. “You okay?” I ask as I scrub. “You seem a little tense.”
She says nothing as I finish rinsing the bowl, then shift to set it onto the towel beside the sink. Slowly, Remi turns around, so she’s facing me, head tipped back as she leans against the edge of the sink.
“Why did you want to come see me?” she asks.
My eyes narrow. “Why?”
She nods, worrying at her lip again as she waits for my answer.
I turn it over in my head, trying to find the truth. Then, even though it’s kind of messy and ridiculous, I say, “Because that pizza date with you was the best date I’ve ever been on. And because you tried to teach me how to not be shit at board tricks.”
As I speak, the firm line of her lips starts to soften.
“And,” I continue, pressing myself closer to her as I reach up to trail my fingertips along her cheek, “because I missed you. Like, a lot.”
Her lips part, and she whispers, “Not just for the sex?”
I really love hearing that word on her lips, but that’s not why I’m here—not even close. And I sure as hell don’t want her thinking that.
“Definitely not.” I shake my head. Then my lips curl up, and I ask, “Wait . . . Is that why you want me here?”
She rolls her eyes. But then she whispers, “Maybe. A little.”
My heart hits hard in my chest. “Maybe? I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment or if my feelings should be hurt.”
Her gaze slides slowly from my eyes to my mouth, and she pushes off the edge of the sink just enough to bring her body into more contact with mine. “I missed you too,” she says, still looking at my lips. “I wasn’t going to tell you that though.”
“No?” I let my hand drift down her face and the column of her neck, then along the curve of her body, where it comes to rest along her waist. My other joins it, and I lift her up, then turn so I can put her onto the countertop, her inner thighs hugging my hips. “Why weren’t you going to tell me?”
She’s breathing a bit harder now; her breath dances over my lips, makes me want to breathe her in until my cells absorb her.
“Because,” she finally says, “I’m afraid.”
Slowly, I lean in, trailing my nose along her throat. She smells like lemon and sunshine, like heat and happiness and all the things I could use more of in my life. My delicate touch makes her catch her breath.
“What are you afraid of?” I whisper against her skin.
Her words come out trembling as she says, “Wanting you this bad.”
I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. And I mean it when I say, “You don’t have to be afraid of that.” One of my hands comes up to cradle her face, fingers gently slipping around the back of her head.
“Why not?”
“Because I want you just as much. I want you more.” My fingers tighten around the back of her head, pushing through her hair where it’s still pulled up into a ponytail. “And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Not until you tell me to.”
I look into her eyes, look at her parted lips, look at the flush creeping up her cheeks.
She gives a small shake of her head and whispers, “Don’t go anywhere, Seb. I want you to stay here. With me.” Her hands come up, fingers gripping my T-shirt, just like they did that night I first kissed her, with the desert wind pulling at our hair and twining around our bodies.
My mouth pulls into a slow smile, and I ask, “Can I please kiss you now?”
She doesn’t speak; instead, her answer is to press her lips to mine, fingers tugging me close, ankles locking around my low back.
And my whole body lights up, nerves tingling, heat coursing through me.
The kiss starts with a feeling of thirst. We drink each other in, lips and tongues tangling, breath coming faster.
Remi scoots closer to me, until her legs are locked fully around me.
I break our kiss to trail my lips across her jaw, to the piercings in her ear.
I nibble at the little glittering gems, then trail my tongue along her throat, making her whimper.
As I begin to kiss along her collarbone, she releases her fists from my T-shirt and wraps her fingers around my face, lifting my head so I’ll look at her.
“Take me to bed,” she whispers, voice trembling in a way that makes me immediately hard. “Please.”
She never has to beg me.
I trap her lips with mine, wrap my arms around her waist, and lift her from the counter.
Then I carry her to the bedroom.