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.
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.