“You’re damn right. And here’s another one. Stay here. Don’t try to sneak out and go home tonight. I’ll sleep better if I know you’re here.”
“Just a couple of siblings having a sleepover?” She sniffled, and he handed her a paper towel from the roll he’d put next to the mason jars.
“Remington, sometimes men say stupid things. Not because it’s the truth, but because they wish it was.”
“That’s Brick speak for either you wish I was your sister or you wish you thought of me as a sister,” she said, those green eyes sweeping him from head to toe. He felt the heat of her curious perusal like it was a caress.
“I’m not answering that. But you are staying tonight so I don’t have to worry about you.”
“Fine,” she said, noisily blowing her nose. “But only because I know you hid my boots somewhere and I’m too tired to tear your house apart looking for them.”
“Good girl. Now let’s go draw a marker mustache on Spence,” he said, plucking her off the table.
She grinned up at him and then froze. “Hey. Did I say anything about butt bongos the other night?”
“Yes. Yes, you did.”
“Damn it. I was afraid of that.”
He watched her take one last look around the room before she headed up the ramp into the house. He had a lot of complicated feelings. One of them stood out more than the others. She’d told him the truth. But he was damn sure there was more to the story than she’d shared.
17
The power kicked back on just after nine a.m., waking Brick on his own living room floor. He was on his side, facing the couch. His right arm was stretched above him, hand holding on to something warm and smooth. Bleary-eyed he raised his head and realized he was gripping Remi’s milky white thigh where it jutted out from the blanket.
Jesus. Even in his sleep he was a possessive bastard over the woman who would never be his. Her skin was so warm and soft.
Her full lips gently curved as if something in her sleep amused her. Her lashes were long and delicate. Skin a translucent shade of pale. She still had that scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose and cheeks.
He wanted mornings like this. Craved them with a hunger that hollowed him out. He wanted to wake up in this house to watch her sleep. He wanted Remi’s face to be the last thing he saw at night before he shut his eyes, the first thing he saw when he opened them. He wanted her laughter echoing throughout the house.
But he couldn’t have that. Couldn’t have her. He wished fiercely that knowing that would make the want, the need finally go away.
A twist of red hair fell over her forehead, causing her to frown. In her sleep, she batted it back and mumbled something he couldn’t quite make out.
Even asleep she didn’t remain peaceful.
She gave another little jolt, jerking her broken arm. Her fingers found his hand on her leg and squeezed.
The intimacy of the moment, of watching her be completely vulnerable and still gravitate toward him, took his breath away.
At least until his brother’s snore startled him out of his reverie. Spencer was sprawled in the recliner, sleeping soundly. Brick wondered if his brother had ever met anyone in his life who’d caused insomnia. They were close, but they tended not to talk about serious things.
Sports? Yes. Hot wings? Absolutely. Relationships? That was a hard no.
His brother had seemed almost stunned when Brick told him he was engaged to Audrey.
“I didn’t even know you two were dating,” he’d said.
Granted, it had been a fast courtship. But still, what did it say about him as a brother that he hadn’t even told Spencer he was dating his old high school friend? He needed to be a better brother. Needed to make more of an effort with Spence the man. Just because he was an adult now didn’t mean Brick should allow their relationship to just fizzle. They were all they had in terms of family. That alone was worth preserving.
Something stirred at the opposite end of the couch. Magnus uncurled from a cocoon of quilt at Remi’s feet and yawned mightily before stalking down the cushions to stab Brick in the arm.
It was time for the furry hellion’s breakfast apparently.
Carefully and with an uncomfortable amount of regret, Brick removed his hand from Remi’s leg. He dragged himself to standing, wincing at the twinges from his back and hips. Thirty-eight was too fucking old to spend a night on the floor.
He adjusted the blanket over Remi, tucking it in around her. Then, because he was half-asleep, let his knuckles graze her cheek.
The cat clawed his leg through his pants and gave a plaintive meow.
“Don’t be an asshole. It’ll just make me feed you slower.”
The Tiki Tavern was enjoying a bustling lunch hour thanks to sunny skies and temperatures that crept up to flirt with the low thirties.
Dressed and ready for his shift as part of Mackinac’s finest, Brick had stopped in to confirm the bar’s supply order and grab a sandwich. He’d left Remi and Spencer still sleeping in the living room.
He took a bite of smoky pulled pork and hit submit on the order. Considering his exercise in self-control complete, he called up a search engine and glanced around to make sure no one had a straight line of sight on his laptop screen before typing “Alessandra Ballard” into the online search.
The kaiser roll lodged uncomfortably in his throat when the first picture came up.
Remi—or rather Alessandra—stared back at him from eyes that looked bigger, more dangerous. She was wearing a low-cut evening gown the exact color of those eyes. Her hair was left long in loose russet curls and swept away from her face. As if the cut of the dress wasn’t arresting enough, she wore a chunky pendant that dangled in her cleavage. She looked like she’d just stepped off the page of some fairy tale, a knowing kind of smile tugging at red, red lips.
Synesthetic artist Alessandra Ballard poses in front of her untitled piece inspired by Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”
It was stunning. She was stunning.
Ignoring the recent headlines predicting rehab and jail time for the “fallen art star,” he clicked through more pictures and watched Remi’s secret life unfold before him. Cocktail parties. Magazine interviews. Gallery openings. Secret smiles and smoky eyes. She was a beautiful person surrounded by other beautiful people.
He felt like he was staring at a stranger. The Remi he knew burst into a room with her hair a mess and a hundred words on the tip of her tongue. The woman before him was something…someone else.
He kept scrolling, headlines and pictures competing for attention.
Winthrope Gallery owner sings Ballard’s praises
Impressive debut by synesthetic painter
Is Alessandra Ballard in rehab?
Alessandra Ballard sells out first show
Ballard’s post-accident disappearance screams guilty
There she was on the arm of a dignified blonde woman, looking like she was on the prowl for trouble.
Artist Alessandra Ballard and socialite Camille Vorhees enjoy a night out at Chef Michael Matsui’s new restaurant.