Forever Never

She wasn’t squeamish by nature. Her mother had taught Remi and Kimber when they were young how to clean up scrapes and cuts common to growing up on a rugged island. Remi, of course, had required more first aid than Kimber. While Kimber had been reading books and hanging out with cool teenage friends, Remi had been climbing trees, pushing snowmobiles past their limits, and playing street hockey with the boys.

Blood didn’t bother her.

At least it hadn’t until it was Camille’s all over her hands, dripping into the snow.

Now, it was Spencer’s. Who was going to be just fine.

“Just fine,” she repeated to herself.

She’d gone with the Callan men to Mackinac Island Medical to make sure there wasn’t anything terrifying about Spence’s head wound and to make sure Brick didn’t decide to murder his little brother. She’d excused herself immediately upon hearing from the not very impressed Dr. Ferrin that his “thick head” just needed a handful of stitches.

Brick had looked at her like he was going to argue about her leaving, but she hadn’t given him the chance. She’d ducked out of the waiting room and, after doing her best to wash most of the blood off her hands, she’d hightailed it home.

Her hands were still red. Her gloves were unsalvageable, thanks to Spence’s fountain-like geyser of O+. Her coat also looked a bit like she’d been an accomplice or a victim of a murder.

She’d burn the lot and order brand new from the general store, she decided.

That was a bonus to having actual money in the bank. She no longer had to run calculations down to the penny to see if she could afford to treat herself to a latte. Her first few years off-island had been tight. City living on gallery associate and undiscovered artist salaries was…impossible. She’d gone without groceries one week, without a prescription the next week. But she became pretty damn ingenious when it came to keeping her bills paid while still scrounging up enough cash for art supplies.

When she’d sold her first Alessandra Ballard painting for $3,000, she’d celebrated by catching herself up on all her bills and then buying a hefty gift card to her favorite coffee shop so she could continue to treat herself when times were tough again. Then, because she was flying high and wanted to share her fortune, she’d taken another $200 in cash and stopped for every homeless person in a three-block radius around her apartment.

Success was meant to be shared. Jackpots were meant to be spread around.

Now…Well, now that initial success had grown beyond her wildest dreams. She could order a fancy new coat without obsessively checking her bank statement. Hell, she could probably order a coat for every person on the island without missing her own rent in Chicago.

It was still novel, she thought, letting herself into the cottage and stripping off her gear. The fact that she was living her dream and being wildly compensated for it.

She’d yet to tell her family. She’d had grand plans of flying them to Chicago for a gallery showing so she could impress the hell out of them. Then the accident had happened, and that sparkly reputation she’d worked so hard for was tarnished. Now if she told them, they’d just shoot her pitying looks and swap worried whispers behind her back.

She’d made it. Finally. But she’d waited too long to share the good news. Could a woman who couldn’t even hold a paintbrush still call herself an artist?

“Damn Spence and his excessive bleeding,” she muttered under her breath. She turned on some music—something soft and easy with blues and purples—and headed into the bathroom to wash away the red.

Finally clean, she changed into leggings and a sweater and was just ready to start seriously thinking about online shopping for Brick’s new snowmobile when there was a thunderous pounding at the door.

Only one man knocked like that. Brick.

He stood in her doorway, expression unreadable. But the vibe was loud and clear. The man was pissed off.

“Look, I’ll replace your snowmobile,” Remi said, before he could start a fight. “I’m sorry. It was irresponsible and it won’t happen again. I didn’t know Spence was going to go that far off course.”

Brick closed his eyes in that annoyingly patient way of his when he was trying to get his temper under control. “It’s fine,” he said, eyes still closed. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

He sounded like he was being strangled.

“How’s Spence?” she asked.

“Whiny.” He brushed past her and stepped inside.

“If you want, you can dump him here for the rest of the day so you don’t have to deal with him,” she offered.

“I think you two have spent enough time together,” he announced, taking off his cowboy hat and throwing it on the table.

The man insisted on wearing the full uniform every shift, no matter how cold it got. She, and the rest of the female population on the island, did not mind how his uniform pants looked hugging his butt.

Butt bongos. Ugh. What was it about this man that made her so desperately stupid?

She sighed. “Can I get you something?” she asked, feeling suspicious.

“Coffee,” he said. “Please.”

“Coming right up.” She ducked into the kitchen and fired up the coffee maker. Meanwhile, Brick prowled the sunny space like a big, pissed-off cat waiting to pounce on something and rip its head off. “So, how’s your shift so far? Before your brother and I ruined it,” she said, reaching into a cabinet and producing two mugs.

“Fine.”

A man of few words and much annoyance.

“You got something to say?” she asked. “Because a conversation that goes both ways is usually more productive.”

“You and Spence,” he began.

She picked up the carafe and poured. “Cream? Sugar?” she asked, knowing full well he took it black.

He shook his head and stared at the mug when she set it on the counter and pointed to it.

“You two need to start thinking about growing up,” he announced, looking just a little green around the gills.

Remi poured herself a cup of coffee and then offered him a flat smile. “Do we now?”

“I can’t have you running around the island pulling pranks and getting into trouble. I get that you’re bored—”

“I hear what you’re saying,” she said through clenched teeth. “And I appreciate your feedback.”

He stilled. “What the hell kind of bullshit is that?”

“It’s me not biting your head off for unsolicited advice. If you want to tell your little brother how to live, that’s one thing. But you don’t get a say in me and my decisions.”

“I do when I’m the one who has to clean up your mess.”

“I get that you’re upset about your vehicle.”

“It’s not the fucking snowmobile.”

“Then what is it?”

“Maybe it’s time you head back,” he said abruptly.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. I am so sick of the one step forward thirty-six steps back dance with you!”

“Is this still you not biting my head off?”

“Brick, you either say thank you and drink that coffee, or I’m going to throw it in your stupid, stubborn face.”

He blew out a breath, obviously trying to rein in his temper. “Fine. I’m sorry,” he began stiffly.

“Don’t apologize to me. I’m the one who helped your brother sink your snowmobile.”

“You don’t want an apology, then what do you want?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. Maybe pick a lane! Last night you’re all, ‘here’s the studio space I made for you,’ and today you’re shoving me out the door for Chicago. You make a girl’s head spin and not in the good way. More like in the 360-degree way!”

“Okay. Fine. I’m not sorry. You are. Let’s leave it at that,” he said.

“Why did you come here?” she asked as he picked up the mug.

“To make sure you were all right.”

The man was infuriating. He was lucky she hadn’t swamped him in the lake instead of his snowmobile.

“Thank you for showing up for him.”

“I didn’t do it for him.” His tone was surly, gruff.

He looked like he wanted to say more. Like there were words he was fighting back. She was so damn tired of his silence, his mysteriousness.

“Oh, come on! What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded. When they got like this, it was like two firecrackers that just kept reigniting the other. Someone always got hurt, and dammit, she was sick of losing fingers.

He lifted blazing blue eyes to hers. His hands were fisted at his sides, and his nostrils flared. She could very definitely see the veins in his neck now. But she wasn’t about to back down.

“You wanna say something to me, then open your damn mouth and say the damn words,” Remi said.

There was a long beat during which neither one of them moved. They’d never held eye contact this long. She felt undressed, cornered.

And then he started to move toward her. Slowly. Prowling. “I don’t think that’s what you really want, Remi.”

The way his voice, all gravel and whiskey, caressed her name made her legs tremble. There was meaning there. But she didn’t know what. She didn’t have a Brick Callan Dictionary available for translation.

She took a step back, then another one. But he just kept prowling toward her. He set his mug down with a distinct snap. She stopped when her back met the cabinet. Any second now, he’d look away. He’d leave and walk away without giving her a second thought. Just like he’d always done.

But this time he didn’t. He stopped when his boots touched her toes.

“Are you scared, baby?” his voice was a rasp. There was fire in his eyes.

She shook her head from side to side as her pulse rabbited at the base of her throat.

He placed one big hand on the cabinets behind her head and leaned in even closer.

Yep. She was just going to have a heart attack or infarction or whatever the hell it was called when a heart just gave up trying to work.

His beard was magnificent up close. She wondered if anyone had ever told him that before, then decided now wasn’t the time.

“You should be,” he said.

Beard. Heart attack. Sexy hand and lean-in. Oh, right. He’d asked her if she was scared, she remembered, walking it back in her head.

“Why should I be afraid of you, Brick?” she scoffed. Sure, her knees were literally shaking. But it wasn’t from fear. It was so much worse.

“Because…” he said, leaning in closer and closer in slow motion.

She stopped breathing and realized she’d flattened herself against the kitchen wall like a cartoon character pancaked by an anvil. He was so damn tall. She had to tilt her head way back to look up at him. And what she saw in his eyes made her wish she would have looked south rather than north.

He stopped an inch from her. So close that she could feel the hum of awareness firing between their bodies. So close that if she took a deep enough breath her breasts would brush against his chest and her nipples would celebrate.

“Take a breath before you pass out, Remington.”

She took one. A ragged, wheezy one. “Why should I be afraid of you?” she repeated.

He held up a hand like he was going to caress her cheek, but his palm stopped just short of touching her, and he withdrew it. It was his turn to take a jagged breath. “Because if you knew all the things I wanted to do to you, you’d leave town tonight and never look back.”

All the things he wanted to do to her? Like tie her up, throw her in a trunk, and murder her in the woods things?

His lips quirked. It wasn’t a smile per-say. But it was a sign of amusement. “Sometimes I can hear you clear as day in my own head. Sometimes—like when you’re calling from the ice bridge because you’re bloody and stranded—I’m thinking about murder. But most of the time…” His hand was back. And this time, he trailed his index finger down the side of her neck, over her clavicle, and under the neckline of her sweater.

She was on fire. He was touching her. On purpose. The trail his finger left behind was fire, lava, lightning.

“Most of the time?” she repeated.

“I showed up for the same reason I do everything.”

“What’s that?” she pressed. She was getting lightheaded and hoped she wouldn’t do something undignified like pass out at his feet.

“For you, Remi.”

Maybe she wasn’t having a heart attack. Maybe it was one of those strokes that garbled language processing. Maybe he was looming over her, telling her he did what he did because the baby hippopotamus at the Cincinnati Zoo told him to.

She opened her mouth, and nothing came out. No sound. No air. Nothing.

Brick Callan had just pulled the rug out from under her.

“Are you fucking with me right now?” she asked.

Those lips quirked again and she thought for half a second he was going to close the distance, cross that last inch that separated them and kiss the ever-loving hell out of her. She’d probably die from it, but she was okay with that.

But then his eyes were shuttering. The heat between them sputtered out.

He withdrew from her, and she felt the absence like an ache that was never going to be satisfied. Because for whatever reason Brick had, he didn’t want her bad enough to make the move.

“I’m gonna go,” he said without a hint of emotion.

“If you walk out that door without telling me exactly what you mean, you will no longer exist to me,” she warned him.

He paused between her and the door. His back to her. He brought the hand that had touched her to his mouth, then dropped it.

“That’s not how this works,” he reminded her.

“That’s how it works from now on. You either tell me why you keep showing up for me but refuse to tear off my clothes, or this is all over. No more fights as foreplay. No more riding to my rescue. No more family dinners together.”

He turned to face her. Hands on his hips, staring at his boots. “You know the reasons.”

“Tell me.”

He raised his gaze to her, and she saw icy fire in those eyes. “You’re too young. You dated my brother. I married your best friend. And your mom is my boss.”

She shook her head slowly. “Those are excuses. Not reasons. I’m done being rejected. Maybe you’re too thick-headed to understand how I feel about you. How we would be together. Or maybe you’re just a big, muscly chickenshit. Either way, I deserve someone I don’t have to beg into my bed. Someone I don’t have to convince to love me. I’m done waiting on you, Brick.”

A single, stupid tear slid down her cheek, burning her skin as it went.

His jaw clenched. Hard. But he remained stoically silent.

The weight of his gaze made it hard for her to breathe. It smoldered and suffocated with unsaid words. But she was done with the unsaid. One of them had to make things clear.

“That’s what you’re walking away from today. This is your last chance, Brick. Life is too short for me to wait for you. So be sure that walking away is what you really want.”

He swiped a hand over his beard. But the mask never slipped.

He picked up his hat from the table. “I’ll see you next time you call me for something.”

She shook her head. “No, you won’t. Because I won’t call you next time. Or ever again.”

His eyes blazed, boring into her. “Yeah, you will. And I’ll be there.”