Page 162 of Remy

I’d give anything to hear it a million more times.

I ignore the pang in my chest and give the older generation what they want.

They continue their debate as Remy drives toward the mountains. Lucy argues culinary purity, how Italians never intended for pineapple to be on pizza, and advocates for preserving authenticity.

Dad has more of a creative expression approach. He says pizza making is often considered an art form and that shunning pineapple is disingenuous.

I listen with a smile while Remy remains quiet from the driver’s seat, the slight quirk of his mouth doing things to me that it shouldn’t.

Once the pizza debate reaches a stalemate, they turn to sports. How Dad loves the Ravens and Lucy wishes we had a local NHL team. But we’ve barely reached the outskirts of Baltimore when the chatter teeters to a stop and I glance behind me to see Dad fast asleep, his chin tucked against his chest.

“He didn’t have the best rest last night,” Lucy whispers.

I nod, feeling guilty for not realizing. I don’t lose the smile though. I keep pretending everything is okay, just like my father has for months.

“Don’t worry.” She beams with reassurance. “I’ll make sure he gets lots of relaxation while we’re away.”

“Thank you.” I turn to Remy, leaning my cheek against my headrest. “So what are your thoughts regarding pineapple on pizza?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “I prefer not to get involved in controversial conversations.”

“Don’t tell me a man as opinionated as yourself doesn’t want to chime in with his thoughts.”

“My choice is purely strategic. Your dad mentioned you being on the debate team in high school, and the only debating I’ve ever been good at is the mass kind.”

I frown. “The mass kind?”

Lucy snorts as Remy shoots me a smug look.

I don’t get it.

Mass kind? What the hell is a mass deba?—

Oh, God.

My cheeks flame. “Very funny.”

He releases a subtle snicker as I turn forward.

Picturing Remy masturbating is not on the approved weekend activities list. Picturing anything sexual while in his proximity deserves an almighty hell no when I still flush hot whenever I think about how he’s touched me.

But even with that sensible, mature-ass outlook, I can’t quit staring at him from the corner of my eye.

The corded forearms.

The muscled thighs.

Dear Lord, that chiseled jaw.

We reach Berkeley Springs in good time, the midday sun shining as we make our way through town, then continue out the other side.

We pass suburban houses and head into the quiet desolation of rural life, finally pulling into a winding dirt drive surrounded by lush trees and sweeping hills with no other houses in sight.

“It’s gorgeous here,” Lucy murmurs in awe.

My dad groans, rousing from sleep. “Have we arrived?”

“We have.” Remy parks before a sprawling contemporary home with a wraparound porch.

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