She’d live off candy marshmallow cereal if left to her own devices.
Just because he wanted to make sure she stayed fed didn’t mean he was overstepping his bounds, he decided.
Brick dumped a few pounds of chicken, ground beef, and vacuum-sealed bags of beef stew into a tote bag. Glancing up, he spotted the neat row of blue and yellow boxes on the shelf. Kraft macaroni and cheese. When they’d been alive, his grandparents kept it stocked just so they could make her some whenever she stopped by. He’d continued the tradition, even though she hadn’t set foot in the house since his grandmother’s funeral.
The doorbell rang, sending Magnus skittering for a place to hide. Brick also felt the urge to hide. But he was a very large, very strong man, he reminded himself. Hiding from a tiny redhead was not an option. Besides, she always found him. On a sigh, he grabbed two boxes of the pasta, stuffed them into the bag, and went to answer the door.
“Hi,” Remi said.
The sun was hitting her from the back, making her long hair shimmer fire and gold. She was wearing another hat—a bright green knit he recognized from her high school days—purple leggings and a pair of stylish-looking boots with fur sticking out of the top. Clutching a travel mug in her mittened hands, she managed to look both tired and irresistible.
“Hi,” he said after a long moment.
She’d painted her lips today. A kind of deep pinky red. He should probably stop staring at her mouth. And he should definitely not picture those red lips wrapping around his—
“Can I come in or are you just going to stand there glaring at me?”
He hadn’t realized he was glaring. When had he lost control of his face? Oh, right. The second he’d heard her name yesterday morning.
“Come in,” he said woodenly and stepped back farther than necessary to let her pass.
She entered and took a deep breath, then sighed it out. “It smells different in here, but it looks the same.”
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Did his house smell? Was it better or worse than how it smelled when his grandparents were alive?
Magnus dashed across the hall behind him.
“Was that a cat?” she asked.
“That’s Magnus. Pretend you didn’t see him. He thinks he’s invisible,” Brick said, finally finding his words.
Remi shrugged out of her parka, revealing a tight, white turtleneck that hugged full breasts. The woman was covered from neck to toes, and he was still uncomfortably turned on.
He would not get an erection talking to her, he decided. This was a test of his self-control. There was no reason why a casual conversation with a woman dressed for warmth should make his flag fly. He was a man. An adult. He could control his baser reactions, damn it.
She put her coffee down on the entryway table and then gripped his arm. He wasn’t expecting the contact and almost yanked it away until he realized she was using him for balance as she removed her boots. She was wearing fuzzy socks with red cherries on them. Socks were not erotic.
“So the room—” he began.
“Lead the way,” she said, looking up at him with a soft smile. Her hair fell away from her shoulder like a curtain, and his hand itched to stroke through it, fist in it. It distracted him from telling her he’d decided not to give her space in his house.
Socks and hair were not erotic, he reminded himself. Stay focused.
“Okay, I’ll lead the way,” she said, stepping around him when he made no move.
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.”