“No.”
He searched her pockets and found only one glove. Not a surprise. He put his own gloves over her tiny hands and led her out the back.
“Where are we going? Are we going to go do something crazy?” she asked, bouncing on her toes and looking hopeful. Drunk Remi was also Do Something Crazy Remi, which was exactly why no one else was going to get the chance to walk her home.
“Sure. But first we’re going to stop by your place.”
“Okay. And then we’re going on an adventure, right?” she clarified, her green eyes wide and hopeful.
“Yep.” She’d be ready to pass out by the time they got to the cottage. He took her hand and tugged her with him down the sidewalk. It was late, and fat flakes of snow drifted lazily toward the earth.
“Have we done this before?” she asked. “This feels vaguely familiar.”
He’d walked Drunk Remi home on more than a few occasions. Especially in her early twenties when the wild child in flowing sundresses couldn’t help but attract freaking day-tripping fudgies—fudge-shopping tourists—and vacationers with dicks. Men fell for her on sight when she was sober. And when she was half in the bag, the woman was fucking irresistible.
“Brick, your hand is going to get cold,” she said, holding up his bare hand.
“I’ll survive,” he promised her.
“Here. I’ll keep it warm for you,” she said, stuffing his hand wrapped in her own into his coat pocket. “If you weren’t you and I wasn’t me, this would be pretty romantic.”
“Do you wish I wasn’t me?” he asked before catching himself.
“I wish I wasn’t me,” she confessed. “I mostly like you being you.”
“Mostly, huh?” He couldn’t help but smile just a little.
She leaned into his arm, resting her face on his sleeve. “You are really good-looking. Do you know that, Brick? I mean. You just have the whole big, bearded lumberjack deal going on.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s only the best kind of thing. I bet women fall in love with you left and right.”
He decided it was wiser not to answer her and was relieved when she lapsed into silence next to him.
He’d known the second she walked into the bar. The atmosphere changed on a dime. The air electrified as if a storm had rolled in. He’d come out from the back and seen her in that green thermal shirt with the right sleeve cut off just above the cast. The denim that hugged her curves in a way that made his palms itch, his fingers curl in on themselves.
She’d been wrapped in Darius’s arms. And despite the fact that he knew Darius was in love and that Remi had nothing but sisterly feelings for his partner, Brick had still gotten sucker punched in the gut.
He despised the fact that others could be so free, so easy with her. That Darius could hug her and not have it send his world flying apart. That other men could touch her and not realize how fucking precious that contact was.
Remi stumbled over a seam in the sidewalk. He stopped to steady her. “You okay?” he asked.
“Fine and dandy,” she hiccuped, right before she fell off the curb.
“You asked for it,” he warned her. Bending down, he tossed her over his shoulder.
“Hey! Everything’s upside down! Wow. Are you always this far away from the ground?”
He rolled his eyes and plodded on up the street.
“Brick?”
“What?”
“Did you know your hand is on my ass?”
“I am aware,” he said dryly. As if there were anything else in the world he could think about except for the way her denim-clad curves felt under the palm of his hand.
“Is that on purpose or an accident?”
“I don’t really know.”
“Well, since you’re grabbing my ass, it’s only fair I get to grab yours.” Drunk Remi had her own logic, and it was always, always flawed.
Pondering this flaw, he nearly took a header into a picket fence when she grabbed his ass with both hands and squeezed. Hard.
“Remi, if you don’t behave yourself, I’m going to leave you in Sam Earl’s trash can.”
“No, you won’t,” she said, alternating squeezes. “You’re very muscular back here. And tense. I think you carry a lot of tension in this area. Have you ever had a massage?”
He was starting to sweat and he still had two blocks to go before he could lock her in her house and run like hell.
“Uh-oh,” she whispered.
“What?”
“I dropped your glove.”
On a sigh, he turned around and retrieved the glove from the snowy sidewalk.
“Put your hands in your pockets,” he told her.
“But then I can’t play butt bongos like this,” she said, smacking his ass in a rhythmless beat with both hands.
“Remi. Stop,” he said, feeling desperate.
“Butt bongo!” she sang, still slapping.
“Remi,” he growled.
But her musical assault on his ass continued. He was left with no other option. At least, that’s what he told himself as he slapped her on the ass. Hard.
She yelped, levering herself up until she was almost upright over his shoulder. The sting of his palm, the noise she made, both went straight to his groin.
“You spanked me!” she said in a hushed whisper.
“You gave me no choice. And keep it down or the whole island will be talking about me spanking you.” It was moments like this that had defined their relationship. Every once in a while, she snuck in under his defenses and made him reveal something he didn’t want to about himself. Like how much he wanted to do it again.
“That would be terrible. Because then they might realize that I kind of liked it.”
Dear God in heaven.
“You seem really broody right now. Do you want to go somewhere for a drink and talk about it? There’s this place called the Tiki Tavern—”
“We’re going home,” he growled.
“My home or your home?” she asked. “Because my temporary home doesn’t have any booze in it. It doesn’t have much of anything in it actually. I left kind of in a hurry.”
The cop in him wanted to jump on that opening. Why had she left in a hurry? Why was the fearless Remington Ford so damn jumpy? But he’d made a promise not to pry. At least for tonight.
“My head is spinning,” she announced. “I can’t tell which end is up.”
“Join the club,” he grumbled.
She was quiet again as he navigated his way across the snowy street past cozy bungalows, crafty Victorians, tidy fenced-in yards. A pristine coat of snow blanketed everything in sight. He still loved this place. It was his first real home. He’d chosen it over the freedom to go wherever he wanted, over his own marriage. Mackinac Island had his heart. And on quiet nights like this, when chimneys puffed white smoke into the inky night sky, he wondered how much of his heart belonged to the island and how much of it belonged to Remi.
“I missed it here,” she whispered from behind him. “No other place has ever really felt like home, you know?”
She’d always been able to read him with unnerving accuracy. “I know,” he said solemnly as Red Gate came into view. The lights blazed behind the windows, pushing back the night.