“I’ll go. I just thought—Never mind. It was stupid.”
“Spencer Callan, you stay right where you are,” Remi commanded from over Brick’s shoulder. Well, more accurately, around his bicep.
“Remi?” Spencer went from kicked puppy to elated brother in the span of a single heartbeat. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”
“Not half as glad as I am to see you!” She elbowed Brick out of the way, leaving him to watch as his brother swept her up in his arms.
Jealousy sliced deep. His brother and Remi shared the kind of carefree, affectionate bond he could never be a part of.
“What are you doing here?” she asked when Spencer put her back on her feet. Brick had to squash the urge to yank her back to his side.
“The big guy glaring at me didn’t respond to my last two texts. Figured I’d fly in, make sure he was alive. Maybe do some tearing around on the ice bridge while I’m at it.”
Brick had the sudden urge to find and open a bottle of bourbon and drink until he fell down. His brother had either ruined a moment he’d been waiting for, or saved him from making a huge fucking mistake. “You could have called,” he said blandly, turning away from the affectionate reunion and pouring himself a glass of water for his burning throat.
“Since when do I need to call ahead to tell my big brother I’m crashing at his place for a couple of days?” Spence asked, dropping his duffel bag on the floor and wandering into the kitchen to open the fridge.
Halfway through his foraging, he poked his head up over the door like a prairie dog. “Hang on. Are you two…” The unfinished question lingered as Spencer looked back and forth between them, taking in Remi’s inappropriately short shorts, Brick’s bare chest.
“No.” Brick’s answer was stony.
“I mean, if you are, I can go find someplace else to stay for the night. It is Valentine’s Day.”
“I know how this looks. But—”
“Don’t be silly, Spence. You know your brother looks at me and sees just another sibling. He’d rather pluck out his own eyeballs with a cocktail fork than look at me that way,” Remi said sweetly. There was fire beneath that sugary surface, and Brick was afraid it might burn him alive.
“Good thing I never thought about you that way,” Spencer said smugly. “Thanks for taking my virginity, by the way.”
“Hey oh!” Remi smirked.
They high-fived, his little brother and his…whatever the fuck Remington was to him, in his kitchen as if it were all some hilarious joke. And maybe it was. But not to him. Brick wished he could just lock them both out of the house and go back to his nice, quiet life.
“Well, I should get going. Thanks for letting me soak up some of your lights, Brick,” she said, starting for the door.
“No,” he said again. And when she didn’t listen—because the woman never fucking listened—he had to grab her by the hood of her sweatshirt. “You’re staying here.”
“You know what that means,” Spencer announced. “Sleepover! I brought popcorn and beef jerky. We can light our farts on fire and tell ghost stories.”
“Boy sleepovers are gross,” Remi observed.
Brick played dirty. While Spencer went upstairs to change, Brick hid Remi’s boots in the dining room so she couldn’t sneak out before they’d had their little talk.
He bided his time through the inevitable catching up portion of the evening. Through the popcorn making and the ensuing rounds of competitive Jenga. Nostalgia slapped at him. The three of them had done just this in this exact room. A fire roaring in the fireplace. A movie no one paid attention to on the TV. His grandmother providing the popcorn. His grandfather, the commentary.
His grandparents would have approved.
It felt…right. Like they all belonged here. But anyone could stick around for the good times. That wasn’t the true test. And Brick knew from experience that most wouldn’t stick through the bad, the hard, the inconvenient. The new, shiny adventure would always beckon to some to shake the dust off their shoes and move on.
Spencer seemed good, happy even. He worked in sales in a complicated position Brick had given up on understanding years ago. He kept them entertained with stories about Detroit and his friends, razzing Remi, reminiscing with Brick. The mood was light like it always was with Spence around.
But every few minutes, Brick would lock gazes with Remi and the smolder there threatened to ignite again. He couldn’t ignore it. And if he wanted answers out of her, he was going to have to embrace it.
So he waited until Spencer was snoring in the recliner. Remi was curled in a ball on the end of the couch under a throw his grandmother had knitted. Brick occupied the opposite end, his feet propped on the coffee table. Something his grandparents would not have approved of.
Remi stirred.
“Do you want me to turn on more lights?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
She shook her head. Those emerald eyes searching his face.
“Are you hungry? Cold?”
“No.”
He kicked off the quilt he’d used to cover his legs. “Then come here. I want to show you something.”
He towed her off the couch and back into the dark hallway, noting how she drew closer to him in the dark. She might not like him right now, but he damn well made her feel safer. He led her to the door and nudged it open.
“I did a little rearranging,” he said, fumbling for the light switch. Finding it, he moved aside so she could step out first.
“Oh, come on,” she groaned. “Why’d you go and show me a thing like this when I’m trying to stay mad at you?”
She wandered down the ramp into the room. Where kayaks and outdoor gear had once hibernated, clean work tables and empty shelves stood, waiting. He’d put down drop cloths in the center of the space and built a framework for her to hang larger canvases.
He’d rescued several of his grandmother’s glass canning jars from the basement and grouped them on the work tables.
“I changed out the lightbulbs in here to those smart LED ones,” he explained, pointing at the pitched ceiling. “You can download an app and change the color and brightness.”
She looked up and sighed.
“I also cleaned out Pop’s old tool cabinet,” he said, gesturing at the red metal chest. “You can use it for storage. Or whatever.”
He watched as she wandered the space, pausing to run a hand over neat stacks of boards. “Those are if you decide to make your canvases.” He scraped a hand over the back of his neck, wishing she would say something.
She glanced his way again, a considering look on her pretty face.
“I honestly don’t know what the hell to do with you,” she said finally. “One minute you’re pushing my buttons, the next you’re stealing my breath. You make my head spin.”
“Talk to me, Remington. Tell me what happened.”
“You never give up, do you?”