I'm Not in Love

“It’s surprising to hear that staying still is so taxing on the body.”

“Posing is more than just staying still, Remi.” He glances sideways at me. I can’t make sense of his vacant expression.

“I… I didn’t mean to suggest that your job is easy, Tristan.”

His gaze slides to the sidewalk before us. “Circulation problems are the biggest issue. My right hand and left foot are still tingling. And it can be mentally exhausting too.”

“You must think I’m a complete asshole.”

“Nah. Assholes don’t coach nude model’s nephews in soccer games.” This time, when Tristan sneaks a peek at me, he allows an almost imperceptible wink.

My relief at his excusal of my insensitivity is surprisingly overwhelming. “H-here we are.” Again, I rush to open the restaurant door. I’m such a damned gentleman… with Tristan.

Then I march past him to the host stand. “I reserved a table for two under Remington.” Despite how much it pains me to use the name that has caused me to feel so lost, I can’t avoid it. The Remington surname is an immutable fact of my life.

The hostess turns briefly to gather several menus from the tall shelf behind her. “Right this way, Mr. Remington.” She can’t resist stealing an extended glimpse at my alluring companion. I take a chance and place my hand on the small of his back. He may not be mine in the fullest sense, but he’s my date tonight.

When Tristan melts into me, I freeze. The scent of his hair beneath my nose—so fresh, even after a long day at work—and his warm body pressing against my side as if feeding off my strength, are utterly gripping. I step away from him; it’s my only hope at regaining steadiness.

He’s just another pretty face, damn it.

When we’re seated at a quaint corner booth, Tristan cranes his neck to explore the restaurant’s exotic interior. Kala Kitchen is my favorite place to take dates because the atmosphere is what I consider to be dramatically romantic. The lights are low, and the glow emanating from a rainbow of tangled string lights and the many brilliant lanterns lining the ceiling does part of my job in the seduction department. The curry is also spectacular.

“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?” the hostess asks, still gaping at Tristan.

“How about a couple of Thai beers to start off?” I ask him.

“That sounds like just what I need,” he replies, looking directly into my eyes, as if unaware of the woman staring at him.

When she leaves, I can’t help but ask, “You get that a lot, don’t you?”

He doesn’t pretend to be confused by my question. “You mean the staring?”

“Yes.”

“I do get that a lot.” There’s no arrogance in his expression. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you are stunningly beautiful.”

Tristan nods in simple acceptance of my statement and then opens his menu. His gaze dips as he studies it, tracing the vertical line of prices with a finger. Finally, he shakes his head. “Do you have any recommendations from the menu—for maybe just an appetizer?”

An appetizer? Is he trying to save me money?

I decide to answer his question with one of my own. “Do you trust me?”

He glances up, and I’m mystified by his obvious wariness. “With a recommendation from the menu—yes, I trust you.”

I swallow, probably quite noticeably. “And you enjoy spicy food?”

“Very much.”

“Then allow me to choose a few items from the menu for us to share.”

Before he has an opportunity to agree, the hostess arrives with our beers. “Your waiter will be right over to take your order,” she says… to Tristan.

“Thank you,” he replies with a patient smile. It takes her a few too many seconds to tear her eyes from him. When I clear my throat, she excuses herself.

Once again alone, I lift my glass. “To our first official date.” If tonight goes as I hope, a first date is the only date I’ll need to quench my thirst for this man.

Tristan wraps his fingers around his glass, but he doesn’t lift it. “I think… I’d rather be friends.” His studious gaze returns to the menu.

His unexpected response shocks me into boldness. “You are gay, right?”

Tristan looks past me at the brick wall. “I am.”

“Then I don’t get it.” I plunk my glass down on the table, and beer spills over my fingers. “You like me—I can tell. And your work in my life drawing class is finished—so what’s the problem?”

“I really do like you.” Tristan is quick to respond. “But right now, I don’t have the luxury of living for myself. I’m responsible for my sister and her three kids. It wouldn’t be fair to them if I let myself get distracted by…” He sighs instead of finishing his thought. “I want to be selfish, but I can’t be.” His eyes are glassy when he again looks across the table at me.

“I won’t distract you from your family.”