I couldn't let my touch be the thing that confirmed everything they’d heard.
“You want me to stay?” I asked out the side of my mouth, my voice dropped low.
Sebastian took my hand, squeezed it once, then let go. “Please?”
“Of course.”
Less than two seconds later, his parents were in front of us.
“Sebastian,” his father intoned, barely sparing me a glance.
“Dad.”
He pressed his shoulders back and stood straight—putting him slightly taller than his father—his chin lifted slightly in the air, his amber eyes cold. He turned his attention to his mom, whose matching eyes were locked on me, her burgundy lips turned down.
It was an exact mirror of the face Sebastian made when he was piecing something together, and seeing that same expression on her face now had me wondering if she recognizedme and was trying to figure out what the hell I was doing with her son.
She sniffed and turned to him. “Sebastian.”
“Hello, Mom.”
“You haven’t returned your father’s calls,” she said by way of greeting.
Sebastian lifted his hand to study his cuticles, his posture relaxed. Indifferent. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Don’t take that tone with your mother,” his father barked, before dropping his voice low, as if only just now remembering where he was. “We could have helped you.”
Unfortunately, I thought he probably meant a large donation to the kind of people who could bury any reference to the Carruthers heir under an avalanche of stories presenting an entirely different narrative. Perhaps a carefully selected, party-approved woman who would be photographed leaving Sebastian’s condo in the early hours of the morning. Something that screamed, “Our son is definitely not queer!”
“Helped me,” Sebastian drawled. “You mean you would have found me a wife to disprove the allegations?”
“A wife?” The question was out of my mouth before I could stop it. That was way worse than anything I’d been imagining.
“It wouldn’t be the first time they’d trotted out someone like a prized mare for my inspection. You remember the hydrangeas?” He lifted his eyebrow.
Remembered it? I’d never forget him recounting that story, or the face of the woman in the photo who’d been clinging to him like he was some expensive toy she’d bought and paid for.
“And you are?” his dad asked, his tone annoyed.
Sebastian set his hand high on my upper back. “You remember Taylor Morrison.”
“Should I?” The older man's lip curled in obvious distaste.
Recognition crossed his mom’s face first. “Your senior year roommate.” Her eyes landed on me again, and I could see the moment the pieces clicked into place. “The one who played hockey. I seem to recall something about an injury, though.”
“Didn’t stop him from getting drafted.” Sebastian's mouth stretched into a wide smile, not the cold, bored sneer he’d been wearing since his parents had appeared. The real one. The lopsided, goofy one that I loved. “He plays defense for the Maine Marauders.”
I noticed that he didn’t bother to add that we were the second-worst team in our division and the fourth-worst in the league.
His mom’s gaze sharpened, as if she were seeing me for the first time and reassessing whether I could be useful. “Is that so?”
The back of my neck prickled. I knew enough about Sebastian’s parents to know that being useful to them wasn’t something I wanted. “Uh, yes.”
The overhead lights dimmed and brightened twice in quick succession as a bell chimed overhead—our signal that it was time to enter the theater.
The crowd around us began to shuffle toward the entrance. “We should head in,” Sebastian said to me, already pivoting away.
“Hold on.” His father reached out and captured his arm. “I want a real conversation with you.”
