“The room isn’t for rent,” Brick said. “The room isn’t for rent. The room isn’t for rent.”
He was a big man who preferred to move slowly, methodically through a task. But with only a few minutes before a visit from a woman who had no problem snooping through other people’s things, he kicked the decluttering into high gear.
He wasn’t a messy person by anyone’s standards. He also didn’t feel like being anything close to vulnerable around Remi.
So his breakfast dishes went into the dishwasher, the stack of opened mail into the breadbox. The sweatpants that he kept next to the front door in case someone came knocking unexpectedly went into the coat closet. Last night’s pizza box fit under the sink. He buried the issue of GQ—the one from six months ago with the redhead on the cover who vaguely reminded him of Remi—under a couch cushion.
He flicked on the lights in the room in question and let out a breath. With windows on three sides, the natural light was good. There was an attached bathroom. Also good because it meant she wouldn’t have to traipse through his house while he was there trying to pretend she didn’t exist.
Magnus the cat wove his way between Brick’s feet.
“You already had breakfast,” he said sternly but still bent to pick up the sleek brown and black beggar. He was a skinny, picky pain in the ass that had appeared in Cleetus’s stall at the stables last winter with a chunk missing from one of his ears and an eye swollen shut.
Brick’s bleeding heart had taken the mangy beast home and nursed him back to health. It had cost him $400 in vet bills, five sets of his grandmother’s drapes, and half a dozen distinct claw marks skating down the back of the leather armchair in the den upstairs.
Eventually, they’d brokered a truce with Magnus going out at night to prowl and Brick providing enough scratching posts inside to prevent any further property destruction.
Glancing at his watch, he put the cat down on the counter. Remi was always late, which meant he had another ten minutes before she got here. He veered off into what his grandmother had called a mud room. He’d turned the space into a large pantry with open shelves, an upright freezer, and a second refrigerator.
Supplies on the island in the winter were at the mercy of the weather and deliveries. Islanders stocked their freezers and pantries with staples leading up to the long winter. Something Remi had probably given no thought to before jumping on a plane.
She’d live off candy marshmallow cereal if left to her own devices.
Just because he wanted to make sure she stayed fed didn’t mean he was overstepping his bounds, he decided.
Brick dumped a few pounds of chicken, ground beef, and vacuum-sealed bags of beef stew into a tote bag. Glancing up, he spotted the neat row of blue and yellow boxes on the shelf. Kraft macaroni and cheese. When they’d been alive, his grandparents kept it stocked just so they could make her some whenever she stopped by. He’d continued the tradition, even though she hadn’t set foot in the house since his grandmother’s funeral.
The doorbell rang, sending Magnus skittering for a place to hide. Brick also felt the urge to hide. But he was a very large, very strong man, he reminded himself. Hiding from a tiny redhead was not an option. Besides, she always found him. On a sigh, he grabbed two boxes of the pasta, stuffed them into the bag, and went to answer the door.
“Hi,” Remi said.
The sun was hitting her from the back, making her long hair shimmer fire and gold. She was wearing another hat—a bright green knit he recognized from her high school days—purple leggings and a pair of stylish-looking boots with fur sticking out of the top. Clutching a travel mug in her mittened hands, she managed to look both tired and irresistible.
“Hi,” he said after a long moment.
She’d painted her lips today. A kind of deep pinky red. He should probably stop staring at her mouth. And he should definitely not picture those red lips wrapping around his—
“Can I come in or are you just going to stand there glaring at me?”
He hadn’t realized he was glaring. When had he lost control of his face? Oh, right. The second he’d heard her name yesterday morning.
“Come in,” he said woodenly and stepped back farther than necessary to let her pass.
She entered and took a deep breath, then sighed it out. “It smells different in here, but it looks the same.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did his house smell? Was it better or worse than how it smelled when his grandparents were alive?
Magnus dashed across the hall behind him.
“Was that a cat?” she asked.
“That’s Magnus. Pretend you didn’t see him. He thinks he’s invisible,” Brick said, finally finding his words.
Remi shrugged out of her parka, revealing a tight, white turtleneck that hugged full breasts. The woman was covered from neck to toes, and he was still uncomfortably turned on.
He would not get an erection talking to her, he decided. This was a test of his self-control. There was no reason why a casual conversation with a woman dressed for warmth should make his flag fly. He was a man. An adult. He could control his baser reactions, damn it.
She put her coffee down on the entryway table and then gripped his arm. He wasn’t expecting the contact and almost yanked it away until he realized she was using him for balance as she removed her boots. She was wearing fuzzy socks with red cherries on them. Socks were not erotic.
“So the room—” he began.
“Lead the way,” she said, looking up at him with a soft smile. Her hair fell away from her shoulder like a curtain, and his hand itched to stroke through it, fist in it. It distracted him from telling her he’d decided not to give her space in his house.
Socks and hair were not erotic, he reminded himself. Stay focused.
“Okay, I’ll lead the way,” she said, stepping around him when he made no move.
He followed her down the hallway. Which turned out to be a mistake. Her tight little ass in those damn purple pants hypnotized him with its sway. His dick stirred behind his fly, further distracting him from his purpose as she poked her head into each room as she went.
“I’m disappointed. I thought I’d see more bachelor clutter,” she announced, turning away from the kitchen.
“Bachelor clutter?”
“You know. Pants you don’t feel like wearing. Pizza boxes. Magazines with mostly naked women on the cover.”
“That’s a very stereotypical picture. Besides, how do you know I’m still a bachelor?”
She gave him a pointed look over her shoulder. “I knew within ten minutes of the ink drying when your divorce was final. This island does not keep secrets. If you had a girlfriend, everyone who’s lived on Mackinac in the past fifteen years would have gotten a text, an email, or a phone call about it.”
They’d reached the glass door that led into the back room. He needed to say something now. He couldn’t show her the room and then say something like, “Sorry. It’s not for rent. Take your tight ass and the hair I want to wrap around my fist and get out of my house.”
“So. Listen,” he began.
But it was too late. “Oh, Brick. It’s even better than I remembered,” she said, opening the door. Magnus skirted past their feet and skulked inside. “Look at all the light.”
She wasn’t seeing the clutter of outdoor gear. The kayak in the middle of the floor. Or the cobwebs hanging from the rafters. Remi only saw the good. Three walls of the room were all windows looking out into the fenced backyard and garden he’d tried hard to maintain to his grandmother’s standards.
Wide plank pine floors matched the timber beams in the cathedral ceiling above.
“I forgot you put in a bathroom,” she said, peeking into the small room. “This is better than the space I have in Chicago.”
Fuck.
She bent down as Magnus came out from under a folding table laden with fishing gear to sniff her socks.
“Hey, buddy,” she said, letting the cat nose at her fingers.
Of course the stupid, picky cat loved her. Everyone did.
He couldn’t stop staring at her ass. Was she wearing anything under those leggings? Barely concealing a groan, Brick turned away and pretended to study the kayak on the floor.
Get a hold of yourself, man. Your dick does not control you. Tell her she can’t be here.
He took slow, quiet breaths and thought about cold water and fish bait.
Under control again, barely, he turned and opened his mouth to tell her that he wasn’t going to let her have the space. But stopped when he saw her.
Her arms were crossed over her chest, shoulders hunched as if she couldn’t get warm.
There was still something weighing her down. Normally, she’d be chattering on, words spilling directly out of her brain. She’d skip or spin or move in a way that suggested dancing rather than something as boring as walking. This subdued version of her was quieter, more repressed.
It worried him.
“Can you paint? I mean with your arm in the cast,” he asked, suddenly needing to break the silence.
She opened her mouth, and a short sigh drifted out. “I haven’t really tried,” she admitted, not looking directly at him.
Again there was no elaboration. No chipper announcement of what art form she’d be tackling until she could get back to painting. No silver lining or funny anecdote.
“When does the cast come off?”
“Four to six weeks.”
“Maybe you can finger paint till then?” he suggested.
This time she did look at him, and he was relieved to see a little spark in those green eyes. “Maybe,” she mused.
“I can clear out most of the outdoor equipment to give you more space,” he said when she got quiet again.
What. The. Fuck? Christ, five seconds with the woman and all his carefully made plans tumbled like a house of cards.
They would both be better off with as much distance as possible between them. But he was worried about her, and until he figured out what was wrong and how to fix it, he’d have to suck it up and deal with the proximity.
“You don’t have to do that. I just need a little corner with good light. Besides, this is just temporary until I figure out…some things.”
“Are you okay?” Sleep-deprived Brick had the self-control of a four-year-old. He wanted to kick himself for asking the question. He wanted to keep asking questions. To keep pushing until he had real answers. Something was wrong, and he didn’t like it.
Why wasn’t she in any accident reports? What had caused her asthma attack? Why had she suddenly materialized on Mackinac? Why did her lights stay on all night? Why was she lying?
Things weren’t adding up, and he was starting to get the feeling that Remi was in trouble. And if there was anything more irresistible than Happy, Playful Remi, it was In Trouble Remi.
Her gaze skated away from him. “Sure. I’m fine.” She said it with a little, careless shrug and then turned to look out one of the windows.
It was the opposite of convincing. She could look anyone in the world in the eye and lie to their face. Except him.
“Would you tell…anyone if you were in trouble?” Would she tell him?
He watched her cover up the fatigue, the worry with a facade of bravado. Her smile, while still a punch to the gut, didn’t come close to her eyes. “Now, when did you go and get a big imagination, Brick Callan? Everything is fine. I’m fine.”
Remington Ford had never once in her entire life been fine. She’d been wonderful. She’d been devastated. She’d been on top of the world. She’d been shattered. But never something as flat or normal as fine.
If he was going to find out what the hell kind of trouble she’d gotten herself into and fix it, he was going to have to keep her close. Or he could just step back and let her deal with it herself.
Fuck.
“Remi—”
She cut him off. “If I do paint,” she said, looking down at her cast. “I don’t like anyone seeing my work before it’s done. I’m superstitious about it.”
He almost said he’d respect her privacy, but that would be a lie. Maybe he wouldn’t peek at her work, but he sure as hell would be digging into whatever the hell was going on with her. So he nodded instead. “I can get you a couple of tarps. For the floor, and you can use one to cover your work.”
“That would be great.”
“I can lock the door to the house, too,” he offered. Maybe a locked door between them would help his sanity.
“Now you’re just being silly.”
He was never silly. Rarely ever even funny.
“So is that a yes?” she asked. “You’ll rent me the space?” She made a show of pressing her palms together under her chin as if she were begging him.
“Yeah. You can use it,” he said wearily.
Some of the tension left her shoulders. “Thank you, Brick. Once again, you’re there with exactly what I need.”
He decided the best reply was a non-committal grunt.
“Oh. One other thing,” she said. “I paint naked. I hope that’s not a problem.”
He turned away from her so swiftly he jostled the table behind him, sending a tackle box to the floor. On an indignant yowl, Magnus sprinted toward the door. Fuck. There was no amount of fish bait he could think about to relieve the swelling in his cock. Short of untucking his uniform shirt, there would be no hiding it from her.
“Geez. Tough crowd. I’m kidding, big guy. I’m not going to prance around your house naked,” she said behind him.
For fuck’s sake. Stop saying naked!
“I’ll get you a key,” he said as he focused all his attention on bending over to pick up the tackle box without cutting off circulation to his stupid, throbbing erection.
“Need a hand?” she asked.
Hand. Mouth. Hot, wet pussy. Fuck fuck fuck.
“Nope. I got it,” he rasped. He stood, holding the box in front of his crotch.
“So I guess the only thing left to do…”
His mind went wild for a moment, fantasizing about folding her over the table and dragging those leggings down her thighs. He imagined what it would be like to see his handprint pink on one of those ivory globes.
She was looking at him expectantly as if she’d said something that required his response.
“Sorry. What?”
“The only thing left is to agree on the rent.”
“Rent,” he repeated. Looking at her was only making him harder.
“Yeah. You know how rent works, right? You give me space? I give you money?” Her smile, though small, was a little warmer.
He shook his head, aiming some of his annoyance at her. “I’m not taking your money.”
“Don’t be so old-fashioned. Name a price.”
“I mean it,” he said sternly. He set the tackle box down and tried to pretend that a hard-on wasn’t hell-bent on tunneling its way out of his pants.
“Now you’re just being—”
Of course she looked down. Those green eyes locked onto his zipper and her pink lips parted in a sexy little O.
“Now I’m just being what?” he prompted.
“Just being…grouchy?” She was still staring. And he was starting to like it.
“You’re asking me if I’m being grouchy?”
“What?” She gave a little head shake and dragged her gaze away from his pants. “I mean. Food. Cooking. Well, baking. I’m pretty good at baking things.”
She was looking at the ceiling now, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. He wanted to order her to look down again, then realized he was being a masochistic idiot.
“Fine. Baking. I’ll walk you out.” And wrap his hand around his dick the second he shut the door behind her.
He led the way, in a hurry to get her out of his house, out of his head. At the front door, he spotted the bag on the floor and grabbed it.
“You look tired,” she observed. “Are you okay?” She was looking at his crotch again. Only this time, her tongue darted out, and she licked her lower lip.
His cock twitched in reaction, and she made a strangled little noise. A man could only take so much torture.
“Fine. Great. Good.” He held the bag out to her. “Here.”
“What’s in the bag?” she asked, looking as if she was addressing his dick.
“Meat. It’s for you. Pickings are slim this time of year. Figured you haven’t had time to stock up.”
He held out the handles and tried not to jump back when her fingers got tangled in his. Normal people could touch other people’s fingers and not get hard-ons. Not spontaneously erupt in their uniform pants. He needed to be normal.
“Mac and cheese? You remembered.” She looked up at him with a real smile, and it hit him dead center in the chest. Ah, fuck. This was a huge mistake.
“Everybody likes mac and cheese,” he said gruffly.
“This is really sweet of you, Brick.”
“Yeah. I’ll get you a key.” He ripped the front door open. “I’ll see you around.”
“Is it okay if I put my boots on first?”
Fuck. “Yeah. You can let yourself out. I have to…” He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Get back to work.” Yeah, that was it.
Without another word, he turned his back on her and headed for the back of the house as if he was running toward an emergency. By the time he got to the bathroom door in what was now Remi’s new studio, he already had his dick in his hand.
Before he slid the pocket door closed, he was already giving his shaft a violent stroke.
He barely had time to brace one hand on the vanity, barely had a moment to imagine himself peeling down those leggings and bending her over before he was already coming. It was an unrelenting torture, being this close to her and still fucking his own goddamn hand. That first wrenching spurt dragged a groan out of his throat as he painted the countertop with his release, wishing it was Remi’s tight little ass.
“God damn it,” he panted, stroking his way through it.
The woman reduced him to this. To an emergency jerk-off session in the middle of the fucking work day after a simple conversation. Was this what it would be like with her here?
He grabbed the hand towel off the hook.
“‘Here’s a bag of meat.’ Idiot.”
