Remi winked at Ian. “I borrowed the school’s Online Media Club yesterday and today. They were already working with the kind of modules this project needed. The Branding Club heard about it and got involved with writing the copy and finalizing the photos. They’re also working on email automation for new people who fill out the volunteer form that includes a campaign advising what to do or talk about during visits.”
Brick blew out a breath. “That’s…impressive.” He was fucking dazzled by her. She’d known he and Kimber would have expected nothing from her. So she’d delivered the entire project on a platter as a subtle but effective “fuck you.” What she was able to accomplish when motivated by revenge was awe-inspiring. And terrifying.
There was no way he was going to survive this.
Remi looked at Ian instead of him and beamed. “You hear that, Chief Technology Officer? You’re impressive.”
“Hey, Mom. Does this mean I can have a brownie explosion for dessert?” Ian asked, looking hopeful.
“I can’t come up with a good reason to say no,” Kimber admitted.
Ian celebrated by pumping his fist and then digging back in to his dinner of pancakes.
“I think if we spend all of next week testing it, we could be ready to roll it out the week after,” Remi announced.
“Chief’s gonna love this,” Carlos predicted, flashing a grin in Brick’s direction that made him want to punch the man in the face.
“On that note,” Remi said. “I’m heading out.”
“I’ve gotta go, too. You want a ride home?” Carlos volunteered.
“That would be great. Thanks,” she said, showering the jackass with unnecessary and excessive attention.
“I’ll go warm up the sled,” he said, pushing his chair back.
Remi high-fived her nephew. “See you guys around,” she said. He was presumably included in the “you guys” even though she only looked at her sister when she said it.
Brick caught her at the door, where she was sliding her arms into her coat.
“Can we talk?”
“Maybe some other time,” she said with a perfunctory smile that was a goddamn sucker punch to the gut.
Their tech officer was already heading out the door with his mother.
“It’s about Camille.”
That earned her attention. His entire body lit up when those green eyes finally landed on him.
“What about her?” she asked. There was a note in her voice that worried him. Something that hinted of fear. The front door opened, and a family of four wandered in, bringing an icy gust of wind with them.
He nudged her into the alcove near the restrooms so they were out of the cold and away from any prying eyes. People were used to them being close, being places together. But this time, Brick didn’t trust himself to maintain that respectful distance that reassured everyone he wasn’t interested in Remi Ford.
“I made some calls,” he said.
“To who?”
She looked so stricken he took her by the shoulders. “To a cop friend I met at a LEO conference a few years ago. He works in a precinct in Chicago. He got me an update on your friend.”
“What—what did he say?” she asked. Her muscles felt like concrete beneath his hands, and he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze.
“He couldn’t get me much. But she’s okay. She had surgery for a collapsed lung and broken ribs. Things were touch and go for a while. But they’re expecting her to go home soon.”
“Home?” Remi repeated.
He nodded. “I’m sure you’ll hear from her once she’s recovering in her own bed.”
“Did you mention my name to your friend?” she asked, bringing shaking fingers to her lips.
“No. He didn’t get the information directly either. So there’s no connection to you.”
She blew out a breath, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”
He nodded, feeling awkward now. He’d expected her to maybe collapse with relief in his arms or something along those lines. But she was practically vibrating with anxiety.
“What’s going on, Remi?” he demanded.
He watched the mask slide back into place on her pretty face. “Nothing. Thanks for the information. I’ll see you around.”
And with that, she slipped out of his grasp and through the front door where Carlos “Dead Man” Turk was waiting astride his snowmobile.
“Fuck.”
22
Between looking over her shoulder, obsessively checking her phone for any messages from Camille, and ignoring a certain burly bartending police officer, Remi officially debuted Mackinac Visits with a motley crew of thirty-plus volunteers and a roster of residents looking forward to their first visit.
At this point in the long, bleak winter, most everyone was feeling a little stir-crazy, which had led to a bigger influx of both volunteers and visit requests than any of them had expected.
Remi signed up to take the Kleckners, an adorable elderly couple who lived in a little ranch house tucked away in the woods mid-island.
Lois was a retired school teacher who’d worked with Remi’s father. Ben had worked as an engineer on the mainland for forty years before dementia complicated things. Remi hadn’t seen either of them in well over a year, but she did vividly remember Ben’s sweet tooth.
She opened the doll-sized oven and sniffed. Molasses cookies were neatly taking shape on the baking tray. She’d had to get creative, baking only a dozen at a time.
Her baking skills radically improved as her creative talents withered and rotted on the vine.
She pulled the tray from the oven and set it on the cooling rack, then surveyed the kitchen mess. This was her fourth dozen. The first was going to the landlord across the street who would remain nameless. She’d avoided exchanging a single word with the man for an entire week now. A feat considering she spent so much time staring at blank canvases in his house and meeting up with old friends for drinks at his bar.
If Remi Ford had a superpower, it was nurturing a good grudge. And Brick was feeling it. The average person wouldn’t know it just by looking at him, but she knew that beneath that stoic surface, her freeze-out was slowly killing him.
She was proud of the effort. At least she was doing something. And something, no matter how immature, was better than nothing.
Remi bagged up two dozen cookies and put on actual pants. However, thanks to her bulky sweater, rebelliously skipped a bra.
She ran a brush through her hair, slicked on some mascara and Chapstick, then realized she looked fourteen and spent another minute or two on real makeup. If she wanted the island to realize she was more than a teenage troublemaker, she had to look the part. But she still wasn’t putting on a bra.
It was a damp, gray day. Snow was in the forecast because it was winter in Michigan. Still, she decided to walk instead of borrowing her parents’ snowmobile. She needed to move and breathe. To do something with this pent-up energy. Even if it was only nineteen degrees outside.