“I’ve got nothing.” Hehadnothing. No things. No career, no home. He couldn’t stay. He’d needed Seacroft to be a reprieve, a sanctuary. When Brian came to get him, he’d thought his brother’s concern was real. It had been such a relief. But that concern had been temporary, and now Martin had no one to turn to and no place to go.
A figure appeared down the beach, moving confidently where the sand was wet and firm as the tide went out. As he got closer, the white-blond hair under his knit cap became visible.
A small flock of sandpipers scurried ahead of Seb—because of course it was him—and took off when he neared, flying in tight formation over the surf. The guy had to have an entire production company that followed him around to ensure he always made an entrance.
Martin had no desire to deal with Seacroft’s favorite son. He shifted, ready to take his bike and pedal onwards, even though he had no destination in mind.
“Dr. Lindsey, I presume!” Seb’s voice cut through the roll of the waves.
Martin scowled at him. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, do you expect your students to just call you Professor?” Seb smirked at him.
He didn’t have students. One more thing to add to his Nothing List.
“Or maybe sir?” Seb’s blue eyes danced.
“What do you care?”
Seb laughed, apparently oblivious to Martin’s turmoil. “I bet the girls loved you. They’d swoon whenever you walked across the quad in your sweater vest, wouldn’t they? Tweed Tuesday? Wooly Wednesdays?”
Martin glared, but it only seemed to encourage him.
“Let’s see. Threadbare Thursdays. There’s always that one sweater that you can’t throw out because you wore it the night you finished your dissertation. And Fleecy Fridays because let’s not forget that height of fashion.”
“Would you shut up?” Martin leapt to his feet, wobbling in the soft sand. He was so tired of this man, this town, all of it.
“No wait! I forgot. It’s Turtleneck Thursdays! Although, sometimes you mix and match and wear those on Tuesdays. Sometimes with tweed!” He clapped his hands together in delight. The sound ricocheted inside Martin’s head.
“What do you want?”
“Just being sociable. I know it’s not a skill set they promote in your usual circles, but trust me, if you’re going to succeed in the cutthroat world of previously-owned literature, it’s something you might want to work on.”
Succeed. That wasn’t really even an option, was it? Not anymore.
“I’ll take my chances as an anti-social failure then.”
Seb shrugged, the leather of his jacket creaking. “That’s the spirit! Join the outcasts and losers club like me!”
“You and I have nothing in common.” Martin fought a shiver. He’d been still for too long, and the cold was seeping from his fingers up his arms and into his chest.
Seb bit his lip as he eyed Martin, and whatever he saw made him laugh softly. “Rough night? Got a little carried away with Seacroft’s vibrant club scene?”
Martin glared at him for another second, but then he blew out a long breath. “Rough morning. I’m too old to be sleeping on a couch.”
“I get that.” Seb scratched at his head through his hat. “Got plans for today? We could go grab a coffee or something.”
“The last time we spoke, you told me to get the hell out of your apartment.”
Seb grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I owe you an apology. You got caught in the crossfire of a family disagreement. I was a dick to you, and that wasn’t fair. The least I can do is buy you a coffee.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah I do. My grandmother would kill me if she knew how rude I had been.” Seb slung an arm over Martin’s shoulders. Martin couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him. He wanted to recoil and press farther into it at the same time. So, despite his misgivings, he allowed himself to be led back to the street.
They stopped at a small coffee shop, where they each ordered. Then Seb also asked for a medium coffee in a large cup.
“Who’s that for?” Martin asked as the server passed them three paper cups.
