“Jesus, Brick!” He was crossing the street, coming toward her like the tide. Inevitable. Unapologetic.
It was annoying that her heart still sang whenever she saw him. But she couldn’t really fault its taste considering Brick Callan was one giant hunk of man. Her appreciation for him had started probably somewhere around the broad shoulders and wide expanse of chest. But it hadn’t taken long for her to realize those serious blue eyes, now with faint crinkles at the corners, had hypnotic, panty-melting superpowers.
The cowboy hat he stubbornly wore despite the much warmer alternatives in headwear added to the rugged appeal. Especially when mixed with his heavy winter coat and the jeans that showed off muscled thighs.
The beard was new and glorious. The intensity was the same and annoying. The deep blue aura pulsed around him. Steady. Dependable. Strong.
Twelve years ago, he’d torn her heart in two. Seven years after that, he’d shattered it into pieces. She’d yet to forgive either of them for it. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still appreciate him being the poster child for testosterone.
She bent to pick up her bags, but he beat her to it, adding her groceries to the ones he already carried. He smelled like leather and sawdust and horses.
“You don’t have to do that. I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own groceries.”
“What happened to your arm?” He asked the question briskly like it annoyed him to want an answer.
Of course he’d noticed. Brick Callan didn’t miss a goddamn thing, except for the most obvious one in the world.
“It’s nothing,” she said, reaching for the bags. He lifted them over her head in what she determined to be an unnecessary—and hot—display of strength. “A small break.”
“How did it happen?” The familiar, gravel edge of his tone settled in her belly and pooled there like warm honey.
He cared. Maybe not in the way a lovesick teenager had once hoped he would. But to the wounded thirty-year-old, it soothed.
“Car accident,” she said. “Seriously. Give me my groceries.”
“Where? Were you driving? Was anyone else hurt?”
She faced him on the sidewalk as the lake wind did its best to slip icy fingers beneath her layers. “No offense, but Chicago is out of your jurisdiction, Sergeant. And my life is none of your business. Remember?”
He laid one of those long, broody looks on her, the meaning of which she’d never decoded.
A vibration from her pocket startled her. Forgetting the man mountain in front of her, she dug frantically for her phone.
Pain in My Ass.
Shit. The hope that had bloomed in her chest disintegrated. She hit ignore like she had on his last four calls and stuffed the phone back into her pocket. Brick was frowning at her now. At least some things never changed.
“Where are you staying?” he asked, finally. “I’ll walk you.”
It wasn’t an offer. He was too much of a gentleman to let her play lame pack mule for a few blocks in hypothermia weather, and no matter how big of a fuss she made, he’d insist.
“Red Gate,” she said.
Brick looked down at his boots, then off into the distance where the sky kissed the water. He blew out a puff of breath.
“Oh, don’t go all tortured cowboy over it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like we’re gonna be running into each other all over the place.”
Red Gate Cottage was perched on the southern tip of the island, pinned right up against the water. It also just happened to be directly across the street from Brick’s house. She still wasn’t sure if that had been a factor in her decision.
“You’re the reason Mrs. Sopp has me changing the batteries in the smoke detectors?”
“No reason to be an ass about it. Gimmie the batteries, and I’ll do it myself.”
“Yeah? So you can fall off a chair and break your other arm?” He started down the sidewalk, shaking his head and muttering uncomplimentary phrases.
She jogged to catch up as he strode past inns and souvenir shops shuttered for the season. “Does this crabby cowboy routine actually charm any girl out of her thermal underwear?” she asked.
“Shut up, Remi.”
Feeling marginally more cheerful now that she’d annoyed him, she fell into step and stuffed her hands into her pockets. It was a sunny, ten-degree morning. The light coating of snow on the road was groomed by snowmobiles, the island’s primary mode of transportation for the season. Snowmobiles, horses, and feet were a resident’s options for traversing the four miles of hilly, forested island.
To some folks, Mackinac Island was a novelty. An entire island without cars? A community with a shelf-life of about four months before the interminable, brutal winter set in?
But to Remi, it was home. And home meant healing.
They made the rest of the walk in silence. She hurried ahead of him to unlock the gate, painted a brash, lipstick red. Tall hedgerows protected the white brick cottage from prying eyes on the sidewalk, but the rambling two-story Victorian across the street could look right over it.
“You painted,” she said as Brick brushed past her with the groceries. The house had once belonged to his grandparents, who had opened their home to two troubled grandsons. Back then, it had been white on white on white. Now, the cedar shakes and board and batten sported a deep navy. The wide front porch centered on a red front door, a color combination Remi approved. He’d kept the low picket fence along the sidewalk a pearly white.
With the snowy front yard and low-growing evergreens, it was picture perfect.
He grunted—because Brick had a daily word allowance of about fifty—and headed around the side of the cottage to the front door. Rather than a porch, Red Gate had a low cedar platform. In the summer, there was a table and chairs with an umbrella for sitting and appreciating the unbeatable view. In the winter, the deck held neat stacks of wood for the small fireplace in the bedroom.
Remi unlocked the door and barely suppressed an eye-roll when the mountain of a man insisted she go in first. Grumpy chivalry held a limited charm.
The cottage, on the other hand, was overflowing with it.
Agnes Sopp—Mackinac’s real estate mogul—had redone it with wide plank pine floors and creamy stucco walls. In the living room, an off-white sofa with deep cushions faced the gas fireplace. The kitchen was tiny, with white cabinets and glossy butcher block. But a small, stainless steel island on wheels added storage and counter space. The windows on the front wall had all been replaced to make the most of the view.
And what a view it was.