God damn it. Less than two days on the island and the woman had already frayed his nerves.
“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood,” sang Carlos Turk as he wandered into the bullpen, hands on his hips. The corporal was obnoxiously and permanently cheerful. Every day was beautiful. Every work shift was fun. Every burger was the best he’d ever eaten. It was hard to dislike a man for being happy all the time, but Brick still made the attempt.
“It’s fourteen degrees,” he countered.
“A beautiful fourteen degrees.” Carlos paused and gave Brick the once-over. “You look like shit, man.”
“Beautiful shit?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Reasonably attractive shit?”
“Good enough. Pastries are in the break room,” Brick said, exiting out of his search. He’d worry on the problem later.
“You caffeinated enough for this morning?” Carlos asked, rubbing his palms together. “I believe it’s your turn to be the bad guy.”
The Styrofoam bat caught him mid-thigh as a six-year-old screeched for help.
“Nice work, Becky. Hit him again,” Carlos instructed cheerily from the sidelines.
Brick bit back a sigh as he monster-walked toward the little girl with lopsided pigtails.
She shrieked as she wound up then let the bat fly, hitting him in the gut.
He should have had that bear claw.
“Look, guys! He’s going down,” Carlos called, winking at the perky kindergarten teacher.
Taking his cue, Brick lumbered down to his knees and then slumped onto the floor, growling and moaning dramatically.
His partner blew the whistle as the rest of the dozen kindergarten and first graders erupted into cheers. “Now what do we do?” Carlos yelled over the din.
“Run away and go get help!” the kids shouted in delirium.
“Great job, kids,” the teacher said. “Now that we know how to handle stranger danger, who wants a snack?”
There was a small but terrifying stampede to the back of the room, where cookies and juice awaited.
Carlos helped Brick back on his feet. “Decent death scene. You’re really improving,” he said.
“Thanks,” Brick said dryly.
Becky skipped over to him and held up a napkin-wrapped cookie. “Thanks for letting me hit you real hard, Mr. Brick,” she said, showing off dueling dimples in her round cheeks.
He accepted the cookie. “Any time,” he said. “Thanks for the cookie.”
“You’re welcome,” she bellowed, beaming at him before sprinting back to the snacks.
Deciding he’d earned the sugar, he took a bite.
His cell phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and nearly dropped it and the cookie when he saw the screen.
Remi Ford.
“Yeah?” he answered gruffly.
“Brick, it’s Remi.”
“I know,” he said, sounding more exasperated than he’d intended. “What do you need?”
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” she said lightly. “I was wondering if you were using that room on the back of your place for anything?”
Once an accessible space for his wheelchair-bound grandfather, Brick now used the room to store horse and fishing gear.
“Not really,” he hedged.
“If you’re not using it, I was wondering if I could rent it from you.” Her words came out in a rush. Like bubbles in a glass of champagne. The cadence was so familiar it built an ache dead center in his chest.
“Uh.”
The woman wanted to rent space in his own house. How in the hell was he supposed to stay away from her if she was under the same roof?
“I need space to fling some paint at a canvas, and the cottage is a little small and a lot clean.”
He envisioned her wielding a brush in one hand, another clamped in her teeth as music blared and turpentine and oil paints splattered everywhere. It was a guaranteed disaster.
He should say no. It was the only answer that made any sense.
“Uh. Yeah. Shouldn’t be a problem,” he lied. It was a big problem. A huge one. The last thing he needed was Remi under his roof. Distracting him. Annoying him. Worrying him.
“Really?” Her voice rose like it always did when she was excited. “Brick, you are my hero. My own personal hero. Thank you! Let me know when I can come over and look at the space and we can talk rent.”
“I don’t want your money, Remi,” he said.
“Money or something else. We’ll work out a trade that doesn’t piss you off,” she promised sunnily.
He looked at his watch. “Fine. Meet me over there in an hour.”
5
“The room isn’t for rent,” Brick said. “The room isn’t for rent. The room isn’t for rent.”
He was a big man who preferred to move slowly, methodically through a task. But with only a few minutes before a visit from a woman who had no problem snooping through other people’s things, he kicked the decluttering into high gear.
He wasn’t a messy person by anyone’s standards. He also didn’t feel like being anything close to vulnerable around Remi.
So his breakfast dishes went into the dishwasher, the stack of opened mail into the breadbox. The sweatpants that he kept next to the front door in case someone came knocking unexpectedly went into the coat closet. Last night’s pizza box fit under the sink. He buried the issue of GQ—the one from six months ago with the redhead on the cover who vaguely reminded him of Remi—under a couch cushion.
He flicked on the lights in the room in question and let out a breath. With windows on three sides, the natural light was good. There was an attached bathroom. Also good because it meant she wouldn’t have to traipse through his house while he was there trying to pretend she didn’t exist.
Magnus the cat wove his way between Brick’s feet.
“You already had breakfast,” he said sternly but still bent to pick up the sleek brown and black beggar. He was a skinny, picky pain in the ass that had appeared in Cleetus’s stall at the stables last winter with a chunk missing from one of his ears and an eye swollen shut.
Brick’s bleeding heart had taken the mangy beast home and nursed him back to health. It had cost him $400 in vet bills, five sets of his grandmother’s drapes, and half a dozen distinct claw marks skating down the back of the leather armchair in the den upstairs.
Eventually, they’d brokered a truce with Magnus going out at night to prowl and Brick providing enough scratching posts inside to prevent any further property destruction.
Glancing at his watch, he put the cat down on the counter. Remi was always late, which meant he had another ten minutes before she got here. He veered off into what his grandmother had called a mud room. He’d turned the space into a large pantry with open shelves, an upright freezer, and a second refrigerator.
Supplies on the island in the winter were at the mercy of the weather and deliveries. Islanders stocked their freezers and pantries with staples leading up to the long winter. Something Remi had probably given no thought to before jumping on a plane.