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.