Forever Never

The power kicked back on just after nine a.m., waking Brick on his own living room floor. He was on his side, facing the couch. His right arm was stretched above him, hand holding on to something warm and smooth. Bleary-eyed he raised his head and realized he was gripping Remi’s milky white thigh where it jutted out from the blanket.

Jesus. Even in his sleep he was a possessive bastard over the woman who would never be his. Her skin was so warm and soft.

Her full lips gently curved as if something in her sleep amused her. Her lashes were long and delicate. Skin a translucent shade of pale. She still had that scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose and cheeks.

He wanted mornings like this. Craved them with a hunger that hollowed him out. He wanted to wake up in this house to watch her sleep. He wanted Remi’s face to be the last thing he saw at night before he shut his eyes, the first thing he saw when he opened them. He wanted her laughter echoing throughout the house.

But he couldn’t have that. Couldn’t have her. He wished fiercely that knowing that would make the want, the need finally go away.

A twist of red hair fell over her forehead, causing her to frown. In her sleep, she batted it back and mumbled something he couldn’t quite make out.

Even asleep she didn’t remain peaceful.

She gave another little jolt, jerking her broken arm. Her fingers found his hand on her leg and squeezed.

The intimacy of the moment, of watching her be completely vulnerable and still gravitate toward him, took his breath away.

At least until his brother’s snore startled him out of his reverie. Spencer was sprawled in the recliner, sleeping soundly. Brick wondered if his brother had ever met anyone in his life who’d caused insomnia. They were close, but they tended not to talk about serious things.

Sports? Yes. Hot wings? Absolutely. Relationships? That was a hard no.

His brother had seemed almost stunned when Brick told him he was engaged to Audrey.

“I didn’t even know you two were dating,” he’d said.

Granted, it had been a fast courtship. But still, what did it say about him as a brother that he hadn’t even told Spencer he was dating his old high school friend? He needed to be a better brother. Needed to make more of an effort with Spence the man. Just because he was an adult now didn’t mean Brick should allow their relationship to just fizzle. They were all they had in terms of family. That alone was worth preserving.

Something stirred at the opposite end of the couch. Magnus uncurled from a cocoon of quilt at Remi’s feet and yawned mightily before stalking down the cushions to stab Brick in the arm.

It was time for the furry hellion’s breakfast apparently.

Carefully and with an uncomfortable amount of regret, Brick removed his hand from Remi’s leg. He dragged himself to standing, wincing at the twinges from his back and hips. Thirty-eight was too fucking old to spend a night on the floor.

He adjusted the blanket over Remi, tucking it in around her. Then, because he was half-asleep, let his knuckles graze her cheek.

The cat clawed his leg through his pants and gave a plaintive meow.

“Don’t be an asshole. It’ll just make me feed you slower.”

The Tiki Tavern was enjoying a bustling lunch hour thanks to sunny skies and temperatures that crept up to flirt with the low thirties.

Dressed and ready for his shift as part of Mackinac’s finest, Brick had stopped in to confirm the bar’s supply order and grab a sandwich. He’d left Remi and Spencer still sleeping in the living room.

He took a bite of smoky pulled pork and hit submit on the order. Considering his exercise in self-control complete, he called up a search engine and glanced around to make sure no one had a straight line of sight on his laptop screen before typing “Alessandra Ballard” into the online search.

The kaiser roll lodged uncomfortably in his throat when the first picture came up.

Remi—or rather Alessandra—stared back at him from eyes that looked bigger, more dangerous. She was wearing a low-cut evening gown the exact color of those eyes. Her hair was left long in loose russet curls and swept away from her face. As if the cut of the dress wasn’t arresting enough, she wore a chunky pendant that dangled in her cleavage. She looked like she’d just stepped off the page of some fairy tale, a knowing kind of smile tugging at red, red lips.

Synesthetic artist Alessandra Ballard poses in front of her untitled piece inspired by Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.”

It was stunning. She was stunning.

Ignoring the recent headlines predicting rehab and jail time for the “fallen art star,” he clicked through more pictures and watched Remi’s secret life unfold before him. Cocktail parties. Magazine interviews. Gallery openings. Secret smiles and smoky eyes. She was a beautiful person surrounded by other beautiful people.

He felt like he was staring at a stranger. The Remi he knew burst into a room with her hair a mess and a hundred words on the tip of her tongue. The woman before him was something…someone else.

He kept scrolling, headlines and pictures competing for attention.

Winthrope Gallery owner sings Ballard’s praises

Impressive debut by synesthetic painter

Is Alessandra Ballard in rehab?

Alessandra Ballard sells out first show

Ballard’s post-accident disappearance screams guilty

There she was on the arm of a dignified blonde woman, looking like she was on the prowl for trouble.

Artist Alessandra Ballard and socialite Camille Vorhees enjoy a night out at Chef Michael Matsui’s new restaurant.

Camille. His attention snagged on the name, and he skimmed the short article.

Designer dresses? Photographers taking her picture outside restaurants? Was that who Remi wanted to be? Some goddess with mysterious eyes and scores of admirers.

She couldn’t be that here.

The truth twisted in his gut like a knife. She had big dreams, the kind that he could never keep up with. The kind that could never be satisfied here, on their quiet little island. Even if she chose him. She’d end up resenting the roots he’d forced her to plant. And he’d never be happy in some city, surrounded by strangers. Not even if it meant having Remi.

This wasn’t an opportunity to win her. This was simply a chance to patch her up and release her back into the world where big dreams flourished and new adventures awaited.

He would never be enough for her. It was time he remembered that.

“You look like you want to put a fist through that screen.”

Ken Pacquiao was a man of contradictions. He had an affinity for sweater vests, but as the island’s barber, his black hair was cut and styled into a faux hawk with indigo tips. He was a loud, proud vegetarian, but his favorite boots were made from ostrich leather. Where his boyfriend Darius was hard-bodied and outgoing, Ken was softer, quieter. But his deadpan observations usually had the power to surprise a laugh out of any audience.

Brick closed the laptop abruptly.

“Also, you’re due for a haircut and a shave, my friend,” Ken observed, sweeping him with a judgmental look. “What’s with everyone on this island channeling the Sasquatch over the winter?”

“He’s just jealous because he can’t grow a beard,” Darius said, leaning over the bar and squeezing Ken’s baby-smooth cheeks.

“I’m not jealous. I’m dedicated to my craft,” Ken sniffed.

“I’ll make an appointment,” Brick said grudgingly.

“Tomorrow. Eleven a.m.” Ken announced.

Brick didn’t see much reason to make the effort since the only woman he’d ever wanted would be leaving him here to go back to her glamorous and exciting life hundreds of miles away. But he was also very slightly afraid of Ken. So he’d keep the appointment. But he wasn’t buying any more of that stupid beard balm, damn it.

“You’re probably out of beard balm by now anyway,” Ken said, reading his mind.

Before he could formulate a response, Brick’s phone rang on the bar.

Remi.

“Hey,” he said, sliding off the stool and trying to look casual as he stepped away from the bar.

“Before I say anything else. We’re both totally fine. Mostly.”

Brick gripped the phone so hard he worried it might crack.

“What happened? Where are you?”

“It’s just a little scratch, but you know how head wounds are,” she said. “But the real bad news is your snowmobile.”

“Remi, where the fuck are you?”

Squinting against the sun and ice, he spotted the orange of Spence’s snowsuit, prone on the ice. The red dot next to him that made Brick feel rage just looking at it had to be Remi. He gunned the department’s Polaris and rocketed toward them.

The ice bridge was the strip of lake that froze solid—most years—connecting the island to the mainland in the winter. It was a relatively safe mode of travel as long as riders stayed between the dead Christmas trees that acted as pavement markings.

Apparently Spencer and Remi had not heeded the ice bridge rules. Seeing as how they were a few hundred feet out of bounds. His snowmobile, an ancient Yamaha that he’d bought third hand a decade ago, was nowhere to be seen.

As he got closer, he saw that Spencer was lying down, his head in Remi’s lap. That put a tic in his jaw. His brother had lost that privilege years ago. Yet despite their breakup, somehow Spencer still remained close to her. They probably traded emails or texts. Probably aligned their summer visits and made plans to see each other on the island. His gloved grip on the handlebar tightened.

He let off the throttle as he approached, then cut the engine. Anger propelled him off the vehicle and across the ice.

“Hi!” Remi’s chipper greeting echoed in his ears when he spotted the blood on her face and coat.

“Cavalry’s here,” his idiot brother said from his still prone position.

“What in the fuck—” He slid on his knees, reaching for her to find the injury, but Remi batted his hands away.

“Hold still,” he snapped. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh, that’s not mine,” she said breezily.

Spencer held up his hand. “It’s mine.”

Brick looked down and found the source of the blood. Remi had her scarf wrapped around his brother’s head, her gloved hand pressed tight to his forehead.

“Head wounds, am I right?” Spencer snickered.

“He hit his head pretty good,” Remi said.

“I totally would have beat your time if the ice hadn’t opened up like that,” Spencer complained.

Brick closed his eyes and took a breath. “Where’s my snowmobile?”

“He’s not gonna like it,” Spencer predicted.

Brick opened his eyes and looked at Remi. She pointed to a snowmobile-sized hole in the ice a few yards away. His hands closed into fists on his thighs.

“How mad is he?” Spencer asked in a stage whisper.

“He’s bundled up. I can’t see the veins in his neck,” Remi replied.

“What were you doing riding out here, and how aren’t you dead?” Brick demanded when he’d regained the power of speech.

“Spence and I were just messing around with time trials. The bridge is a little bumpy in a couple of spots, so smarty-pants here thought he’d do his last run on fresh ice,” Remi explained.

“So you weren’t on board?” Brick clarified.

“I was at the finish line with the timer,” she said cheerfully.

“Are you mad, B?” Spencer asked. “You look mad.”

“Mad?” Brick was several steps past furious. “Why should I be mad that you two are out here pissing around being irresponsible? Why would I be mad that you destroyed my only mode of transportation—”

“You still have Cleetus,” Spencer said helpfully.

Remi punched his brother in the shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Why would I be mad that I’m the one who has to ride to the rescue and play clean up?”

“Sorry, Brick,” they said together.

Damn it. He hated when they said things in unison. Hated being reminded that he was somehow separate from the two of them. Hated that he was on the outside of their inside jokes.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered.