Well, that hadn’t gone horribly, Remi decided, as she looped her bags over her good arm and stepped back out into the biting morning cold.
After a long, sleepless night, she’d survived an unexpected encounter with Brick. And accidentally hugged him in a way that screamed woman in distress. But she’d at least managed to swear Bill, Mira, and the rest of the store’s occupants to secrecy until she surprised her parents.
Which gave her about an hour before her mom got a call from someone spilling the news.
An hour to figure out her official story and wipe the fatigue from her face.
An hour to try calling the hospital again.
She walked far enough so that she was past the grocery store’s windows before dumping the bags on the sidewalk. Using her teeth to yank off her glove, she redialed.
“Northwestern Memorial Hospital, how may I direct your call?”
“Hi, I’m calling to get an update on a patient’s condition,” Remi said.
“Patient’s name?” The voice on the other end sounded like there were a lot of other things she’d like to be doing besides answering phones, but at least it was a different operator than yesterday.
“Camille Vorhees.”
“Your name?”
Remi hesitated. “I’m…her sister.”
“Name?”
Fuckity fuck fuck. “Alessandra?”
“You’re not on the list.”
“It’s because I’m the black sheep of the family,” she tried.
“You’re not on the list. According to HIPAA—”
“Yeah. Thanks. I got it.” Remi disconnected the call and kicked at the support column holding up the porch roof of the next building. “Damn it,” she muttered.
“Remi.”
She jumped clear out of her skin. That voice. That fucking rough, low, gravelly voice that still haunted her dreams.
“Jesus, Brick!” He was crossing the street, coming toward her like the tide. Inevitable. Unapologetic.
It was annoying that her heart still sang whenever she saw him. But she couldn’t really fault its taste considering Brick Callan was one giant hunk of man. Her appreciation for him had started probably somewhere around the broad shoulders and wide expanse of chest. But it hadn’t taken long for her to realize those serious blue eyes, now with faint crinkles at the corners, had hypnotic, panty-melting superpowers.
The cowboy hat he stubbornly wore despite the much warmer alternatives in headwear added to the rugged appeal. Especially when mixed with his heavy winter coat and the jeans that showed off muscled thighs.
The beard was new and glorious. The intensity was the same and annoying. The deep blue aura pulsed around him. Steady. Dependable. Strong.
Twelve years ago, he’d torn her heart in two. Seven years after that, he’d shattered it into pieces. She’d yet to forgive either of them for it. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still appreciate him being the poster child for testosterone.
She bent to pick up her bags, but he beat her to it, adding her groceries to the ones he already carried. He smelled like leather and sawdust and horses.
“You don’t have to do that. I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own groceries.”
“What happened to your arm?” He asked the question briskly like it annoyed him to want an answer.
Of course he’d noticed. Brick Callan didn’t miss a goddamn thing, except for the most obvious one in the world.
“It’s nothing,” she said, reaching for the bags. He lifted them over her head in what she determined to be an unnecessary—and hot—display of strength. “A small break.”
“How did it happen?” The familiar, gravel edge of his tone settled in her belly and pooled there like warm honey.
He cared. Maybe not in the way a lovesick teenager had once hoped he would. But to the wounded thirty-year-old, it soothed.
“Car accident,” she said. “Seriously. Give me my groceries.”
“Where? Were you driving? Was anyone else hurt?”
She faced him on the sidewalk as the lake wind did its best to slip icy fingers beneath her layers. “No offense, but Chicago is out of your jurisdiction, Sergeant. And my life is none of your business. Remember?”
He laid one of those long, broody looks on her, the meaning of which she’d never decoded.
A vibration from her pocket startled her. Forgetting the man mountain in front of her, she dug frantically for her phone.
Pain in My Ass.
Shit. The hope that had bloomed in her chest disintegrated. She hit ignore like she had on his last four calls and stuffed the phone back into her pocket. Brick was frowning at her now. At least some things never changed.
“Where are you staying?” he asked, finally. “I’ll walk you.”
It wasn’t an offer. He was too much of a gentleman to let her play lame pack mule for a few blocks in hypothermia weather, and no matter how big of a fuss she made, he’d insist.
“Red Gate,” she said.
Brick looked down at his boots, then off into the distance where the sky kissed the water. He blew out a puff of breath.
“Oh, don’t go all tortured cowboy over it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like we’re gonna be running into each other all over the place.”
Red Gate Cottage was perched on the southern tip of the island, pinned right up against the water. It also just happened to be directly across the street from Brick’s house. She still wasn’t sure if that had been a factor in her decision.
“You’re the reason Mrs. Sopp has me changing the batteries in the smoke detectors?”
“No reason to be an ass about it. Gimmie the batteries, and I’ll do it myself.”
“Yeah? So you can fall off a chair and break your other arm?” He started down the sidewalk, shaking his head and muttering uncomplimentary phrases.
She jogged to catch up as he strode past inns and souvenir shops shuttered for the season. “Does this crabby cowboy routine actually charm any girl out of her thermal underwear?” she asked.
“Shut up, Remi.”
Feeling marginally more cheerful now that she’d annoyed him, she fell into step and stuffed her hands into her pockets. It was a sunny, ten-degree morning. The light coating of snow on the road was groomed by snowmobiles, the island’s primary mode of transportation for the season. Snowmobiles, horses, and feet were a resident’s options for traversing the four miles of hilly, forested island.
To some folks, Mackinac Island was a novelty. An entire island without cars? A community with a shelf-life of about four months before the interminable, brutal winter set in?
But to Remi, it was home. And home meant healing.
They made the rest of the walk in silence. She hurried ahead of him to unlock the gate, painted a brash, lipstick red. Tall hedgerows protected the white brick cottage from prying eyes on the sidewalk, but the rambling two-story Victorian across the street could look right over it.
“You painted,” she said as Brick brushed past her with the groceries. The house had once belonged to his grandparents, who had opened their home to two troubled grandsons. Back then, it had been white on white on white. Now, the cedar shakes and board and batten sported a deep navy. The wide front porch centered on a red front door, a color combination Remi approved. He’d kept the low picket fence along the sidewalk a pearly white.
With the snowy front yard and low-growing evergreens, it was picture perfect.
He grunted—because Brick had a daily word allowance of about fifty—and headed around the side of the cottage to the front door. Rather than a porch, Red Gate had a low cedar platform. In the summer, there was a table and chairs with an umbrella for sitting and appreciating the unbeatable view. In the winter, the deck held neat stacks of wood for the small fireplace in the bedroom.
Remi unlocked the door and barely suppressed an eye-roll when the mountain of a man insisted she go in first. Grumpy chivalry held a limited charm.
The cottage, on the other hand, was overflowing with it.
Agnes Sopp—Mackinac’s real estate mogul—had redone it with wide plank pine floors and creamy stucco walls. In the living room, an off-white sofa with deep cushions faced the gas fireplace. The kitchen was tiny, with white cabinets and glossy butcher block. But a small, stainless steel island on wheels added storage and counter space. The windows on the front wall had all been replaced to make the most of the view.
And what a view it was.
The inky, gray waters of Lake Huron stretched out to infinity in front of the cottage, constant and dependable. Just like the man prowling her space. He stalked into the kitchen, taking up all of the space with his cowboy shoulders and grumpy competence.
And that, she realized as she shed her boots and coat, was why she’d come back. To be just close enough to feel safe again. Despite his protestations, Brick Callan cared about her. There was something in his spirit that demanded that all the people he cared about be safe. She envisioned him running around like a cattle dog, nipping at the heels of the people of Mackinac, keeping them all from harm’s way.
She let out a sigh. Nothing good ever came from mooning over the ungettable man. Besides, she had bigger, more dangerous problems on her hands.
He produced a blister pack of batteries from one of the bags. She watched as he efficiently popped the cover on the first smoke detector without needing a chair or stepladder and wished she could curl up on the couch and sleep while he was here. While she was safe.
She climbed into one of the blue velvet swivel armchairs in front of the window. Turning her back to the lake, she pulled her knees up to her chin and watched him grudgingly take care of her.
Covers clipped back into place, he pitched the packaging and old batteries into the trash bin under the sink.
“Do you do a lot of maintenance for Agnes?” Remi asked.
He turned to look at her, and when those long legs of his ate up the space between them, she scooted back in the chair. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to do, but it certainly wasn’t to take her right hand gently in his and push up the sleeve of her oversized sweater.
She had hugged, kissed, poked, prodded, and leaned into him about a thousand times over the years. There was a spark of something special every time they touched. It fascinated her. Comforted her. Confounded her. But the very thing that attracted her to Brick seemed to repel him from her. She could count on one hand the number of times the man had voluntarily touched her first.
“How the hell did you do this?” he demanded. His voice was stern, but the way he held her hand as he examined the plaster was almost tender.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she insisted, not sure if that was indeed the truth.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it feels great. Of course it hurts. It’s a broken arm,” she snapped.
“How did it happen?” he demanded grimly.
She tensed, unable to control the visceral reaction to the memories. Blindingly bright lights. Metal collapsing in on itself. Falling into the dark.
“I told you. It was a car accident,” she said, trying to pull her arm away. But he held her arm carefully, firmly in his grip as his fingers explored the tangerine plaster of her cast.
Those blue eyes focused on her as if they were peeling back the layers.
“What happened?” he asked again. His voice was rough and low, but his touch warm. That blue, pulsing light that surrounded him seemed to envelop her, too.
She was horrified when her eyes filled with tears.
This time, she was able to yank her arm free and turned away to face the windows and the water beyond. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You always want to talk about everything.”
“Not anymore,” she murmured.
“How much does it hurt?” he rasped, sounding as if he were in some pain himself.
She rested her cheek on her knee and willed the tears away. “Not so much anymore.”
“You do remember that I can tell when you’re lying,” he said, spinning her chair around and forcing her to look at him. She saw storms in his eyes. More gray than blue now. She wondered what he might see in hers.
Would he look past the bravado and see what lurked beneath the surface? The thing that hadn’t existed before. The thing that had changed everything.
“That was a long time ago,” she reminded him quietly. “We’re both different people now.”
He rose, straightening those mile-long legs of his and returned to the kitchen. “You’re gonna need to stock up on some essentials,” he observed as he loaded up his bags. He was leaving. She was relieved and sad. As much as he annoyed her, his presence chased away the shadows. And that pissed her off.
“I’ll get around to it,” she told him, quickly wiping a tear away when he wasn’t looking.
Groceries collected, he paused and gave her another once-over. “You look tired. You should rest.”
“Good-bye, Brick,” she said pointedly. He headed toward the door, and she waited until he’d opened it. “I like your beard,” she called after him.
With a clench of his jaw and one last smoldering look, he was gone.
