chapter 27
Sebastian
REMI IS A WOMAN POSSESSED while she meal preps.
I help out where I can, chopping the things she tells me to chop and grabbing ingredients when she needs them.
But mostly, I think she wants me to stay out of the way.
So I take a seat on one of the tall barstools and sit at the counter, sipping one of the Coronas from last night, watching as she starts to portion her meals out into gleaming glass containers with pink lids.
Her hair is pulled up into a messy bun, and she’s wearing a tank top and jean shorts, with her cute bare coral toes padding across the wood floor—which means it’s killing me watching her. Like, it’s almost physically painful at times to hold myself back from touching her.
But watching her move through her normal routine is beautiful in its own way as well. I feel fortunate just getting to sit here in her space, just getting to exist with her.
When I realized I missed my flight this morning, there was something relieving in it, like I’d subconsciously accidentally given myself a reason to stay.
And Remi was okay with it.
Sitting here now, snagging slices of red bell pepper from the bowl Remi had me chop up, I could grab my phone and schedule my return flight to Cali. But every time I think of doing that, a knot forms in my stomach.
Because I really don’t want to go.
But I know I have to; Ashton was texting me earlier today about everything we’re doing these next four weeks: more studio time, promo shoots, a podcast interview, and a bunch of other random stuff that I’ve already forgotten about.
Usually, I’m chill about all of that; I don’t enjoy all of it, necessarily, but if it means I get to keep playing music for a living, I’ll do it with a smile on my face.
Things feel different now though. Because all of those responsibilities directly impact my ability to be here, with her. They’ll take me away from where I really want to be.
So, I take another sip of my beer and intentionally don’t reach for my phone. Maybe tomorrow I’ll schedule the flight. Remi goes back to work tomorrow, so she might want me out of her hair anyway.
The lids click closed on her glass containers, and then she puts them into the freezer, except for one, which she slides into the refrigerator. When she turns, she plants her hands on her hips and smiles at me.
“All done.”
She reaches for her phone, perched on the edge of the countertop, and laughs at what she sees on the screen.
“My little sister won’t stop texting me,” she says, letting out a breath, but her lips are curved up in the corners.
I take a sip of beer, then ask, “Is that who you were talking to this morning?”
She nods. “Yeah. Riley.”
“Sorry for interrupting.” I reach up, rubbing the back of my neck with one hand. “I’m not sure if you wanted to keep this—us—private.”
Her face does that thing it does when I’ve said something that I probably didn’t mean to.
“Us?” she asks.
I grin, trying to disguise my slip. “I mean, we do have matching toenails. That’s gotta count for something, right?” She can’t see it, but I wiggle my bare toes where they’re perched on the barstool.
Remi rolls her eyes at me, then goes back to her phone. A second later, music starts playing over the speakers. She puts the phone down, then returns to her kitchen workstation, where she starts to clean up. Immediately, I slide off my barstool and join her.
Together, we rinse bowls and wash dishes. As we clean, Remi hums along to the music, her head bobbing and hips swaying as she sprays the counter before swiping a cloth over it.
And finally, my hands refuse to obey. I find myself easing up behind her, slipping my hands onto her hips, pressing myself against her. She leans back against my chest as my arms encircle her waist, her head finding the spot just beneath my collarbone.
“So,” I say into her ear, her soft hair brushing my cheek, “besides pedis and grocery shopping, what else do you usually do on your days off?”
She puts the cloth down, then turns to face me, reaching up to drape her arms around my neck. “The gym, usually. Or I see friends or hang out with Ri. And sometimes I dance.”
I arch a brow, gently circling her hip bones with my thumbs. “Like, what you were just doing?”
Her lips form such a pretty smile that I almost kiss it right from her mouth. “No.” Her hands slide down my chest, and one finds my hand, our fingers intertwining. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
She grabs her phone, then leads me down the hallway to the second bedroom. As we step through the doorway, I swallow hard.
The evening sun shines through the windows, casting her pole studio in shades of deep gold and yellow, making her chrome dance pole shine.
“Sit.” She points to the couch, and I dutifully obey, sinking onto it, then resting my arms along the back. The pink throw rug underfoot is deep and plush, and I wiggle my toes into it.
The music in the living room stops, and then the speaker system in the pole studio lights up with a soft pink glow, and a new song starts playing.
Remi sets her phone down, then reaches up to pull her hair out of the messy bun.
The tangled strands fall down around her shoulders, a swash of black against her golden-brown skin.
She turns toward the pole, flashing her blue-eyed gaze at me. My breath catches, lodged in my chest. Then she wraps her hand around the chrome and starts to dance.
It’s different from what I’ve seen her do onstage and in the private room at the club. This movement looks loose and free, like she’s not really trying—or like she’s dancing for herself rather than someone else.
And I love it. I love this so much more than what Mirage does at Caliber.
This feels like Remi, like the way she expresses herself.
Her movement, the slow rotation her body does around the pole, reminds me of my music; it’s a way to speak without words, to let everything out without having to think so damn much.
She grips the pole with her thighs, holding herself aloft, and runs her hands through her hair as she reclines back, twirling slowly in the golden light. I find myself leaning forward, elbows on my knees, watching her with rapt attention.
Her movements, her facial expressions, the whisper of the pole spinning—it’s mesmerizing.
The song ends, and Remi slides down from the pole, her bare toes touching the floor without a sound. She leans against it and smiles at me.
“Wanna try?” she asks.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Me?”
This makes her laugh. “Yes, you. Come on. Don’t be scared.”
Slowly, I rise to my feet, my gaze tracing up the pole to where it’s bolted into the ceiling. “I don’t know . . . I weigh a lot more than you.”
“You’ll be fine. This thing isn’t going anywhere, I promise.” She taps it with her hand. “I had it professionally installed.”
I’m not quite convinced. That pole looks like one swing from my body would send it toppling. But I approach her anyway, and she smiles up at me.
“Okay . . .” I say, still side-eyeing the pole. “What do I do?”
This leads to an hour-long session of Remi trying to teach me some basic pole moves, but she spends half that time in stitches of laughter, tears running from the corners of her eyes as I grip the pole for dear life and swing around it like a drunken monkey.
“This,” I gasp, “is so much harder than you make it look. I think I pulled a shoulder muscle.”
Pole beats the weight bench for sure. Maybe the gym should get one of these instead.
Remi wipes the tears from her eyes and reaches up to squeeze my shoulder, making me wince. “I’ll give you a massage later,” she says, blue eyes catching mine in the fading sunlight of late evening.
And that makes me instantly forget about how ridiculous I just looked for the last hour. I’d pull all my muscles if it meant she’d massage them for me.
Her phone chimes, interrupting the music, and she gives me a little smile before walking over to check it. I look up at the pole, feeling seriously impressed by pole dancers, then glance at her.
And her smile’s gone. Instead, her lips are pressed into a tight line, and there’s a furrow in her brow. It immediately makes my stomach sink.
“Everything okay?” I ask, taking a step toward her.
She continues to stare at the phone, then holds it out to me.
Nervous about what I’ll find, I reach for it.
She has her social media app, Tribe, pulled up. And the photo that stares back at me is confusing for a moment, until my brain slows down enough to process it.
It’s a photo of the two of us getting our toenails painted at the salon. The angle of the camera makes it look like someone tried to take it discreetly, and they were obviously successful, because I had no idea this shot was taken.
We’re smiling, and Remi appears to be laughing at something I said. It’s . . . kinda cute, actually.
Until my gaze slides to the comments under the photo. My stomach drops.
As usual, the comment section is a cesspool. People say nice things, people say shitty things—it’s best to just ignore it, I’ve learned. Then I see that someone has tagged Remi in the photo.
“How do they know that’s you?” I ask, dragging my gaze from the phone screen to Remi’s face. Her lips are still pulled down, and her arms are crossed.
She lifts her shoulders in a stiff shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe someone from the salon who knows my name.” Little tendrils of black hair brush her cheeks as she shakes her head. “I have no idea. But look.” Reaching out for the phone, she makes a few taps on the screen, pulling up her profile.
And all of her photos are getting bombarded with comments and insults and questions about me. It’s overwhelming and disgusting and way too much.
This reminds me of what happened when that photo of Dex and Nora went out. People were so shitty to Nora after that; I felt so bad for her. And now it’s happening to Remi.
Because of me. This is my fault.
“Fuck,” I mumble, reaching up to rub the back of my neck. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been more careful. Usually, people don’t give a damn when I’m out alone. Guess I’m more interesting when I’m with you . . .”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, then heaves a big sigh. Her gaze flicks up to mine.
In my hand, her phone chimes, and I look down, reading the text that comes through without meaning to.
I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS. YOU’RE FAMOUS S
I crack a small smile, then offer her the phone. “Riley’s texting you.”
Remi takes the cell and reads it. A flicker of amusement crosses her face, but then it’s gone again, like sand blowing away in the desert wind.
“Hey,” I say softly, reaching out to take her chin between my forefinger and thumb, lifting it so she’ll meet my eyes. “Are you okay?”
Her blue eyes look troubled, and I hate that I’m the one who caused that trouble.
“Come here,” I say, dropping my hand from her chin, then intertwining our fingers and leading her to the low couch.
I sink onto it, pulling her down with me so she’s seated in my lap, her knees on either side of my hips.
“Talk to me, Rem. What’s going on up there?
” I brush her temple with my fingertips. “Is it the comments?”
She shakes her head, then looks away, casting her gaze out into the last rays of the setting sun. Her brow furrows, and she worries at her bottom lip. For a while, neither of us says anything, and pressure builds inside my chest as I wait for her to speak.
“It . . . scares me,” she says softly, still not looking at me.
“What does? That photo?”
She nods once.
“What are you scared of?” I put my hands on her thighs, squeezing them softly, trying to ground her here in this moment with me.
Moisture gathers in her eyes, just like it did last night. The sight of it makes me want to crush her to my chest and chase all her worries away. I hate that I’m making her feel like this.
“It’s nothing,” she says quickly, reaching up to scrub the moisture away before tears can fall. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not,” I say. “None of your thoughts are stupid.” I put my calloused hand on her cheek, and she leans into it, letting her eyes close. “Will you please tell me?”
She remains there, eyes closed, cheek pressing into my palm. Then she whispers, “I’m scared it’ll . . . change things.”
“What things?” I trace her cheekbone with my thumb.
“Things with us.”
My chest goes warm. I don’t want her to cry, don’t want her to be scared. But she said there’s an us. She teased me about that word earlier, when I accidentally let it slip out. But now she’s saying it back to me, and it makes everything inside me tingle.
“How?” I whisper.
Her shoulders rise in a small shrug. “Like . . . they’ll come into this little bubble we’ve made and just . . . pop it. People ruin everything.”
Now I lift my other hand, cupping both her cheeks. Her blue eyes open, glittering with unshed tears in the dying light.
“It doesn’t change anything,” I say. “Not one bit. Let the outside world talk; they don’t get to come into this world. This world is just for us. I won’t let anyone ruin that.”
Her lower lip trembles. “You promise?”
I pull her in and press a kiss to her lips. Her mouth stops trembling, and as I pull away, I lean my forehead against hers and whisper, “I promise. And I’m sorry they invaded your privacy like that.”
She takes what sounds like a steadying breath, and her eyes aren’t watering anymore as she says, “It’s okay. I’ll set my profile to private. Then no one will be able to tag me or see my stuff.” Her lips lift into a small smile on one side. “I should’ve had it on private anyway. That’s on me.”
I still feel like this is my fault, like I’m bringing more trouble into Remi’s life than I’m worth. But she shakes it off quickly, then pushes up from her place in my lap. Hands on her hips, she looks down at me.
“How about a shower, then that massage?”
I’m up and off the couch so quick that it makes her laugh. Before she can guide me down the hall to the bathroom, I tug her in for a hug, my arms looping around her, her head pressing to my chest.
And I’m determined not to break the promise I just made. No matter what, this is our world—no one gets to ruin this for us.