She was on fire. He was touching her. On purpose. The trail his finger left behind was fire, lava, lightning.
“Most of the time?” she repeated.
“I showed up for the same reason I do everything.”
“What’s that?” she pressed. She was getting lightheaded and hoped she wouldn’t do something undignified like pass out at his feet.
“For you, Remi.”
Maybe she wasn’t having a heart attack. Maybe it was one of those strokes that garbled language processing. Maybe he was looming over her, telling her he did what he did because the baby hippopotamus at the Cincinnati Zoo told him to.
She opened her mouth, and nothing came out. No sound. No air. Nothing.
Brick Callan had just pulled the rug out from under her.
“Are you fucking with me right now?” she asked.
Those lips quirked again and she thought for half a second he was going to close the distance, cross that last inch that separated them and kiss the ever-loving hell out of her. She’d probably die from it, but she was okay with that.
But then his eyes were shuttering. The heat between them sputtered out.
He withdrew from her, and she felt the absence like an ache that was never going to be satisfied. Because for whatever reason Brick had, he didn’t want her bad enough to make the move.
“I’m gonna go,” he said without a hint of emotion.
“If you walk out that door without telling me exactly what you mean, you will no longer exist to me,” she warned him.
He paused between her and the door. His back to her. He brought the hand that had touched her to his mouth, then dropped it.
“That’s not how this works,” he reminded her.
“That’s how it works from now on. You either tell me why you keep showing up for me but refuse to tear off my clothes, or this is all over. No more fights as foreplay. No more riding to my rescue. No more family dinners together.”
He turned to face her. Hands on his hips, staring at his boots. “You know the reasons.”
“Tell me.”
He raised his gaze to her, and she saw icy fire in those eyes. “You’re too young. You dated my brother. I married your best friend. And your mom is my boss.”
She shook her head slowly. “Those are excuses. Not reasons. I’m done being rejected. Maybe you’re too thick-headed to understand how I feel about you. How we would be together. Or maybe you’re just a big, muscly chickenshit. Either way, I deserve someone I don’t have to beg into my bed. Someone I don’t have to convince to love me. I’m done waiting on you, Brick.”
A single, stupid tear slid down her cheek, burning her skin as it went.
His jaw clenched. Hard. But he remained stoically silent.
The weight of his gaze made it hard for her to breathe. It smoldered and suffocated with unsaid words. But she was done with the unsaid. One of them had to make things clear.
“That’s what you’re walking away from today. This is your last chance, Brick. Life is too short for me to wait for you. So be sure that walking away is what you really want.”
He swiped a hand over his beard. But the mask never slipped.
He picked up his hat from the table. “I’ll see you next time you call me for something.”
She shook her head. “No, you won’t. Because I won’t call you next time. Or ever again.”
His eyes blazed, boring into her. “Yeah, you will. And I’ll be there.”
19
Twelve years ago…
Eighteen years old with a diploma metaphorically in hand, Remi was free. Even the weather had cooperated, rewarding the early June date with a bright and shiny day warm enough for her to wear her new dress. A long, backless number in watercolor blues and greens. The breeze tugged at her skirts. The rest of her classmates, all six of them, had shown up to the post-graduation celebration in St. Ignace in shorts and t-shirts.
Just another way that she didn’t quite fit in. But it finally didn’t matter.
With high school officially behind her, she was a few short months from reinventing herself. The fragile asthmatic. The weirdo synesthete. The trouble-making little sister. They all disappeared with one last ferry ride to the mainland in August.
Then her life would officially begin at art school—thank you, scholarships and financial aid. Sure, Detroit was still in Michigan. But it might as well be a separate country from idyllic Mackinac. She’d be close enough to home in case she flamed out in the first week or two, but she wanted the fresh start bad enough that she wouldn’t let that happen.
The art shop, her intended destination, beckoned the eye with windows full of color and order just begging to be messed up and rearranged. Brand new brushes pined for a swath of paint. Miles of blank canvas held its breath, waiting for someone to write their story across them.
Waiting for her to create a future.
“What are you doing, Remi?” He appeared in worn jeans and that gray t-shirt that fitted to his broad chest. Every time she got within a foot or two of the man, her skin buzzed with awareness. He wasn’t that many years ahead of her and her classmates, but Brick Callan was all man.
“Daydreaming. What are you doing, Brick?” she asked with a flirtatious smile.
“Making sure you don’t get into any trouble. Why don’t you go back to the party?”
She threw her arms wide and spun in a little circle. “Haven’t you heard? You can officially retire now.”
A smile played on his firm lips. “Just like that?”
She shrugged, annoyed that he wasn’t seeing the magic of her transformation. “I’m eighteen. An adult. A high school graduate. I’m leaving for college in August.”
The hint of smile disappeared. “I am aware,” he said.
She let the silence stretch on, testing him to see how long it would take for him to break it.
“I didn’t get you a graduation present yet,” he said finally.
“Did you get Spencer one?” she asked.
“Nope.”
She wasn’t quite grown-up enough to hide the triumphant flush.
“Are you still mad at him for the accident?”
He uncrossed his arms and pressed a palm into the stone above her head. His nearness disoriented her like one too many wine coolers. He made her feel small but safe. Treasured. Protected. And part of her craved it. But there was another piece that wanted to break free, to shed this life and its expectations.
Maybe then he’d see her for the woman she was instead of a collection of amusing anecdotes and memories.
“I am.”
His voice held the rough edges of anger. She winced. “I’m sorry about your truck.”
While other schools salivated over the chance to host their prom on the island, the senior class of Mackinac delighted in venturing to the mainland. Her platonic date Spencer, who’d been devastated when Audrey moved with her family, had been too busy rehashing his mother’s invitation to visit her in Vegas for the summer to realize the traffic light had turned red.
“There’s prostitutes out there, Remi! Lot’s of them.”
She’d been just about to remark that he was more likely to get into trouble with a loan shark than a prostitute when a Honda Fit had bounced right off the passenger door.