I charge, right into her space.
Sinking my hands into her hair, I lift her chin up to mine, and without wavering, sweep my tongue over the line of her lips to get access before diving inside.
I swallow her gasp of surprise and kiss her like I’ve never kissed anyone before. This is a declaration—this is a point being made. This is a promise.
Our tongues dance, hers giving way to mine as I take complete control of the kiss and her mouth.
Her taste is so familiar, so beautifully and hauntingly her, that my mind almost spirals into despair at the thought of not tasting everything—every single part of her.
“God,” I groan, pulling away just enough to lick across the line of her lips again. She whimpers, and all the planning, all the moments that have led to this one come into focus. No questions. No small talk. Everything that needs to be said is said with this kiss.
Leave no fucking doubt, Remy.
This isn’t the end. And if it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I will make sure we pick up where we left off.
When I finally pull away, Maria is breathing heavily, and her eyes are soft. “Wow.”
I laugh. “Yeah.”
“I guess I’ll see you again sometime, then, huh?”
“Just try to keep me away, and see what happens.”
She quirks one amused eyebrow at me. “Is that a threat?”
I shake my head. “It’s a promise. And you know how I am about keeping promises.”
She laughs then. “Adult Remington Winslow is all about the promises.”
“Damn straight, babe.”
With one last peck to her lips, I grab the remainder of my stuff from the kitchen counter and head for the front door. She follows easily, holding it open for me while I walk through it.
But before I leave, I turn in the open door, my hand firmly clenched around the outer edge, and lean back into the apartment. Maria is surprised by the motion and, as a result, doesn’t have time to put up her defenses. Instead, I’m in her space—enveloped in her smell and, hopefully, trapping her with my own. She might have thought I was heading out, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving without a detailed plan. I cannot leave without knowing precisely when I’m going to see her next.
“Come to dinner. Friday. At my sister’s house.”
“Family dinner?” She shakes her head, her mind a swirling mess of thoughts I only wish I could read. “Rem, I don’t know—”
“It’s not formal. You know everyone anyway. And they’d love to see you. Plus, there will be other babies and kids and Lexi and plenty of adults to step in so you can enjoy a dinner with two hands.”
“Rem—”
“Please?” I find myself whispering, the want hanging plainly in my voice.
Her head bobs back and forth for a moment of torture, but in the end, finally, she gives in. “All right. Text me the time and address. I’ll be there.”
“I already did.” I smile unabashedly. I’m proud-as-a-fucking-peacock for convincing her, and to be honest, I feel no need to hide it.
“What? When?”
“When I was getting my shit together. While you were with Iz.”
Her cheeks carve into a smile, and I feel the expression all the way in my chest. “You’re cocky, you know that?”
“I’ve been told before.”
“Well, you need to be told again. Dear lord, the ego of Remington Winslow is going to be the size of a semitruck by the time I’m old and gray.”
I chuckle. “Fine by me. As long as you’re at dinner on Friday night.”
“Like I said, I’ll be there.”
The best part is, I believe her. I can see it in her eyes that she’s going to follow through.
And I’m the lucky son of a bitch waiting on the other side.
Friday, October 11th
Maria
“Here goes nothing, Izzy girl,” I whisper down to where she sits cozy in the baby carrier strapped to my chest, but as I start to lift my hand to rap my knuckles against the fancy wooden door in front of me, something makes me pause. Hesitate.
Truthfully, my heart is in my throat as I stand on the threshold of Winnie Winslow’s Uptown brownstone, memories swirling about a young girl doing something very similar years ago.
Of course, then, I didn’t have a baby in tow and, ironically, felt like I knew myself well enough to take on a family of this size. Back then, Isabella and I waited with bated breath for sixteen-year-old Remington Winslow to open the door to his childhood home. For me, it was because I was in love—starry-eyed, notebook-doodle-causing, heart-thumping love—with one of the cutest boys I’d ever known.