Camille. His attention snagged on the name, and he skimmed the short article.
Designer dresses? Photographers taking her picture outside restaurants? Was that who Remi wanted to be? Some goddess with mysterious eyes and scores of admirers.
She couldn’t be that here.
The truth twisted in his gut like a knife. She had big dreams, the kind that he could never keep up with. The kind that could never be satisfied here, on their quiet little island. Even if she chose him. She’d end up resenting the roots he’d forced her to plant. And he’d never be happy in some city, surrounded by strangers. Not even if it meant having Remi.
This wasn’t an opportunity to win her. This was simply a chance to patch her up and release her back into the world where big dreams flourished and new adventures awaited.
He would never be enough for her. It was time he remembered that.
“You look like you want to put a fist through that screen.”
Ken Pacquiao was a man of contradictions. He had an affinity for sweater vests, but as the island’s barber, his black hair was cut and styled into a faux hawk with indigo tips. He was a loud, proud vegetarian, but his favorite boots were made from ostrich leather. Where his boyfriend Darius was hard-bodied and outgoing, Ken was softer, quieter. But his deadpan observations usually had the power to surprise a laugh out of any audience.
Brick closed the laptop abruptly.
“Also, you’re due for a haircut and a shave, my friend,” Ken observed, sweeping him with a judgmental look. “What’s with everyone on this island channeling the Sasquatch over the winter?”
“He’s just jealous because he can’t grow a beard,” Darius said, leaning over the bar and squeezing Ken’s baby-smooth cheeks.
“I’m not jealous. I’m dedicated to my craft,” Ken sniffed.
“I’ll make an appointment,” Brick said grudgingly.
“Tomorrow. Eleven a.m.” Ken announced.
Brick didn’t see much reason to make the effort since the only woman he’d ever wanted would be leaving him here to go back to her glamorous and exciting life hundreds of miles away. But he was also very slightly afraid of Ken. So he’d keep the appointment. But he wasn’t buying any more of that stupid beard balm, damn it.
“You’re probably out of beard balm by now anyway,” Ken said, reading his mind.
Before he could formulate a response, Brick’s phone rang on the bar.
Remi.
“Hey,” he said, sliding off the stool and trying to look casual as he stepped away from the bar.
“Before I say anything else. We’re both totally fine. Mostly.”
Brick gripped the phone so hard he worried it might crack.
“What happened? Where are you?”
“It’s just a little scratch, but you know how head wounds are,” she said. “But the real bad news is your snowmobile.”
“Remi, where the fuck are you?”
Squinting against the sun and ice, he spotted the orange of Spence’s snowsuit, prone on the ice. The red dot next to him that made Brick feel rage just looking at it had to be Remi. He gunned the department’s Polaris and rocketed toward them.
The ice bridge was the strip of lake that froze solid—most years—connecting the island to the mainland in the winter. It was a relatively safe mode of travel as long as riders stayed between the dead Christmas trees that acted as pavement markings.
Apparently Spencer and Remi had not heeded the ice bridge rules. Seeing as how they were a few hundred feet out of bounds. His snowmobile, an ancient Yamaha that he’d bought third hand a decade ago, was nowhere to be seen.
As he got closer, he saw that Spencer was lying down, his head in Remi’s lap. That put a tic in his jaw. His brother had lost that privilege years ago. Yet despite their breakup, somehow Spencer still remained close to her. They probably traded emails or texts. Probably aligned their summer visits and made plans to see each other on the island. His gloved grip on the handlebar tightened.
He let off the throttle as he approached, then cut the engine. Anger propelled him off the vehicle and across the ice.
“Hi!” Remi’s chipper greeting echoed in his ears when he spotted the blood on her face and coat.
“Cavalry’s here,” his idiot brother said from his still prone position.
“What in the fuck—” He slid on his knees, reaching for her to find the injury, but Remi batted his hands away.
“Hold still,” he snapped. “You’re bleeding.”
“Oh, that’s not mine,” she said breezily.
Spencer held up his hand. “It’s mine.”
Brick looked down and found the source of the blood. Remi had her scarf wrapped around his brother’s head, her gloved hand pressed tight to his forehead.
“Head wounds, am I right?” Spencer snickered.
“He hit his head pretty good,” Remi said.
“I totally would have beat your time if the ice hadn’t opened up like that,” Spencer complained.
Brick closed his eyes and took a breath. “Where’s my snowmobile?”
“He’s not gonna like it,” Spencer predicted.
Brick opened his eyes and looked at Remi. She pointed to a snowmobile-sized hole in the ice a few yards away. His hands closed into fists on his thighs.
“How mad is he?” Spencer asked in a stage whisper.
“He’s bundled up. I can’t see the veins in his neck,” Remi replied.
“What were you doing riding out here, and how aren’t you dead?” Brick demanded when he’d regained the power of speech.
“Spence and I were just messing around with time trials. The bridge is a little bumpy in a couple of spots, so smarty-pants here thought he’d do his last run on fresh ice,” Remi explained.
“So you weren’t on board?” Brick clarified.
“I was at the finish line with the timer,” she said cheerfully.
“Are you mad, B?” Spencer asked. “You look mad.”
“Mad?” Brick was several steps past furious. “Why should I be mad that you two are out here pissing around being irresponsible? Why would I be mad that you destroyed my only mode of transportation—”
“You still have Cleetus,” Spencer said helpfully.
Remi punched his brother in the shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Why would I be mad that I’m the one who has to ride to the rescue and play clean up?”
“Sorry, Brick,” they said together.
Damn it. He hated when they said things in unison. Hated being reminded that he was somehow separate from the two of them. Hated that he was on the outside of their inside jokes.
“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered.
18
She wasn’t squeamish by nature. Her mother had taught Remi and Kimber when they were young how to clean up scrapes and cuts common to growing up on a rugged island. Remi, of course, had required more first aid than Kimber. While Kimber had been reading books and hanging out with cool teenage friends, Remi had been climbing trees, pushing snowmobiles past their limits, and playing street hockey with the boys.