“You spied on me?” It had been a mistake coming here. Coming home maybe. But running to Brick? Definitely. “You can barely look me in the eye but you went digging for information on me?”
She didn’t make it two steps before he caught her around the waist. They both went stock-still. She could feel the steady thump of his heart. His heat. His glorious, intoxicating, hypnotizing heat seeped into her bones.
“You’re shivering.” His voice was a rumble at her back.
“I’m not shivering,” she said through chattering teeth. “I’m shaking with rage. Totally different.”
For a beat, they stood exactly where they were, bodies touching, breath audible. Then he released her and pointed to the couch. “I don’t care if you’re trembling with hysteria. Sit your ass down and explain to me what the fuck is going on,” he said.
“It’s none of your business.” It wasn’t. She wouldn’t make it his. If she couldn’t protect Camille, she could at least protect him and the only way she was going to be able to accomplish that was by pissing him off.
“I don’t know why you think you can just stick your nose into other people’s business and then demand they explain their lives to you,” she huffed, working herself up into a temper.
“I’m a cop and a bartender—it’s what I do.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not a criminal or a patron. So back off.”
“Where’s your inhaler?” he demanded crisply.
“What?”
“You’re starting to wheeze.”
She didn’t have to work herself up now, she was actually there. For the first time in weeks, she felt strong, not weak.
He blew out a breath. Standing there, hands on hips, he looked formidable. And safe. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t his problem. He’d lost the opportunity to make her his problem a long time ago.
“Sit,” he ordered.
Stubbornly, she remained standing until he gave an aggrieved groan and took a seat on the couch. “Happy?”
“Not until you tell me why the hell you decided it was imperative that you go digging into my business,” she shot back.
His hands closed over his knees, and then he slid his palms up his thighs. “Because you’re fucking scared, Remi. And the girl I know isn’t afraid of anything. So when you show up here, unannounced, with some bullshit story and a broken arm, and you can’t sleep with the lights off, you’re fucking right, I did some digging. I know you were hospitalized for an asthma attack, not injuries sustained in an accident. You didn’t mention that to your parents when they asked.”
Suddenly weary, she stalked to the opposite end of the couch and sat. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees. She couldn’t afford to tell him the truth. But he wasn’t going to leave this alone. So she had to find another solution.
“Talk to me,” he pressed.
She stared at the flames as they flickered in the fireplace. “Why?”
“Because as much as you don’t believe me, I care.”
“Why?” she asked again.
He rubbed his palms over his thighs. “We’re practically family.”
She shook her head. “Is that how you really feel? That we’re family? That you’re some big brother figure to me?”
He hesitated, and the silence filled every corner of the room. Tension built.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She stared him down. “You want me to be honest with you. Yet you’re willing to sit there and tell me you think of me as a little sister?” she challenged. The man was either lying to her or to himself.
“This isn’t about me,” he began.
“Do you see why I don’t feel like showering you with honesty? You can’t even be honest about that. Something we both know is true, and you still can’t admit it.”
Her phone rang from the pocket of her hoodie, and she yanked it out. It wasn’t a number she recognized, but the area code was Chicago.
Without an explanation, she bolted from the room.
“Hello?” she breathed, hurrying into the kitchen.
“You want to explain to me why my top client isn’t returning any of my calls?” Rajesh Thakur, her annoyingly needy agent demanded.
Remi’s shoulders sagged, and the hope that had built inside her deflated like a punctured bounce house.
“Why are you calling me from some random number?”
“Bigger question. Why is Alessandra Ballard answering some random number instead of the last eleven calls from her agent?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to talk to you?” she hissed, peering over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone.
“Bro, did it occur to you that I don’t care?” Raj, as he was known in the art crowd, was immune to digs and insults. He dressed like a mob boss, spoke like a recently graduated fraternity brother, and demanded VIP service everywhere he went. As long as he was negotiating his clients’ fat commissions, he didn’t care what anyone had to say about him.
Brick appeared in the doorway and strolled over to the refrigerator. He leaned against it, arms crossed, and watched her, openly eavesdropping. She would have stepped outside, but it was fucking dark out there.
“What do you want?” she asked Raj.
“To tell you to snap out of this little meltdown funk and get your ass back here. We should be plastering your face all over the blogs.”
“I’ve seen what they’re writing. There will be no face plastering,” Remi said, glaring at Brick.
He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She returned it with a middle finger.
“Negative attention is still attention,” Raj insisted in her ear. “And in this case, it’s paying off big. Ask me how.”
She blew out a breath through gritted teeth. “You’re the worst. How?”
“First, tell me I’m the world’s greatest agent, and you want to up my commission to twenty percent.”
“No.” As a baby, untested artist, she’d surprised Raj by battling him down from his standard twenty percent to a more palatable fifteen. He secretly respected her for it.
“Your motherfucking genius agent just sold Once Upon a Dream.”
Remi spun away from Brick’s weighted stare. “Wait. What? That wasn’t even in a gallery yet.”
The piece was huge and complex. Her best yet. It was a wild fever dream of color. It came to being after she’d asked a DJ friend to mix two of her favorite songs together. She’d finished it just before the show at the gallery. Just before the night that had changed everything.
“No gallery, no gallery commission,” Raj crowed.
“Raj, that painting was in my apartment.” Her apartment was a minimalist, white loft with high ceilings, tall windows, exposed ducting, and wood floors. While it was exactly the kind of place Alessandra Ballard would have been expected to have, it hadn’t ever truly felt like home to Remi.