Page 148 of Remy

“Make what harder? Is your uncle threatening him? Why can’t you take me instead?”

He grabs my chin, forcing me to hold his gaze. “I promise you, this isn’t about Lorenzo.”

I don’t want to believe him, but those eyes, they charm me despite their ruthlessness. “Your words don’t mean much these days.”

“Jesus Christ, Ollie.” Something flickers in his features. Something softer. Something real. “I’m trying my best to do right by you, and you’re making it fucking difficult.”

Do right by me?

My heart skips a beat. “What do you?—”

“Listen.” He releases my chin and steps back. “This isn’t about Lorenzo and has nothing to do with our arrangement. I can’t waste time placating you on this. I need to go.”

“Remy.” I grab his arm before he can leave. “We need to talk.”

He stiffens. “This isn’t the time or place.” He shakes off my grip. “I’ll get him to call you once he’s back home.”

I stand stunned. Hollow.

I hate that I believe him. Hate even more that through all the confusion I still trust him to bring home the man I care most about.

It’s Lorenzo I have a problem with. “I’ll be waiting here for his return.”

Remy doesn’t respond. Instead, he continues around the car with his uneven gait.

I pull out my cell and set a timer. “If you’re not back in an hour I’m calling the cops.”

He pauses in the middle of opening the driver’s door, pinning me with a warning scowl. “Make it two.”

I nod and retreat toward the building.

He climbs into the sports car, slams the door, and pulls from the parking lot, my father giving me a placating wave of farewell as they depart.

It’s so stupid that my concern battles with an overwhelming sense of heartbreak. That Remy’s cold shoulder is somehow in the same ballpark of consideration as my father’s safety.

Then again, none of my reactions to that ruthless man have been filled with sanity.

I suppose I’m right on brand.

I sit on the stairs with my phone in hand. It doesn’t fill me with giddy glee to navigate to the tracker app and revert to stalking again. But desperate times and all that.

I watch the little dot move away from the funeral home and across town to stop in the city.

I zoom in on the map, the sun slowly setting around me while I investigate their location—The Grand Windsor.

Why? What could they possibly be doing at a five-star hotel?

It takes two minutes of the dot idling for me to push from the stairs to pace. Another two minutes of manic contemplation before I go back inside and busy myself with work, my cell propped on my tool tray so I can constantly refresh the tracker.

They leave the hotel after half an hour. Make a detour on their return, the twenty-minute pause at a nearby suburban home. Then finally, they travel toward me.

I’m already waiting outside under the sensor light which beams down on the stairs, when the sports car pulls in, my father still in the passenger seat, a little red hatchback following them with a middle-aged woman behind the wheel.

They park side by side, Remy not glancing in my direction when he gets out and rounds the Aston Martin.

His expression lacks the harsh lines it did earlier. It’s as if he’s deliberately schooling his features. Not giving anything away.

I stride toward them, still eyeing Remy, waiting for him to give me a clue as to what’s going on, but he remains focused on helping my dad to his feet.

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