“If you could.”
“Why do you want a copy of the divorce paperwork?” he asked, ever tired, already wishing he’d stuck with the schedule and eaten before he called his brother because every word out of Rhys’s mouth whittled away his appetite. He didn’t want to tell Remington he didn’t eat, and he didn’t want to lie about not eating if asked. He wanted things to be easy.
Just one thing to be easy.
Remington had been easy until they’d had sex, and then things had gotten weird. Maybe they’d rushed it. But he’d been so desperate and ready to be with a man. No. Not to be with a man. To be with Remington.
He was smitten with Remington Dockery.
“I just want it,” Rhys answered him. “Do I need a reason?”
“Are you checking my due diligence? Worried since I couldn’t get married right that I didn’t bother to get divorced right?”
“Essentially,” Rhys muttered under his breath.
“You know what, Rhys? Get fucked.”
“I am.”
Sebastian disconnected the call before he could hear the rest of whatever his brother had to say. The screen on his phone showed him the picture from when they’d been kids, before he’d grown to hate the person he used to idolize the most. Matching heads of blond hair, splayed and bleached from the summer sun, arms thrown around each other with laughs and smiles.
All of that before they’d learned what it meant to carry the St. George name.
He tapped his screen and called Remington, who answered on the fourth ring.
“Hey.”
“I can’t eat,” he said quickly.
“Can’t how?” Remington asked.
Sebastian rubbed at his eyes. “I just got off the phone with Rhys and he ruined my appetite.”
“He ruined your mood yesterday, too.”
“You caught that?” He gave a small laugh.
“You mentioned it.” Remington sighed. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on with him?”
“Not so much. At least, not right now.” He traced back the gold vein on the counter to the place his phone sat. “Why is this easier on the phone? Or online? Why do I feel like I can talk easier?”
“Ah…probably because you aren’t judging my reactions if you can’t see them.”
“Is it that simple?” he asked, not believing it.
“Your entire life is a performance, Sebastian. You’re more worried about what other people think about you than anything else that’s going on. Of course it’s easier to talk to me on the phone or via text, or email.”
“I feel like that should hurt me.”
“Does it?” Remington asked. “That wasn’t my intent.”
“I know,” he agreed. “That’s why it didn’t.”
A small silence settled over the phone, and he listened to Remington type something on his computer through the speaker.
“I shouldn’t have called you at work,” Sebastian apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re busy.”
“It’s fine,” Remington said. “I have a meeting; I just told them I would be late.”
