Page 174 of Remy

I sigh. “Please tell Wesley the whistleblower I don’t appreciate him being a snitch.”

That thumb continues to stroke back and forth, back and forth, coaxing me into a dreamy existence.

“You can cry in front of me, Ollie. I won’t hold it against you.”

I drag his scent deeper into my lungs. “I’m not sure I know how anymore.”

“Why is that?”

I shrug, my feet shuffling in incremental movements. “Growing up surrounded by death made for some pretty emotional times. I’d finish school only to return home to a place filled with mourning.”

It was hard. I couldn’t burst through the front doors of my parents’ work with news of good grades or achievement awards in case they were consoling someone. On the flip side, I couldn’t get upset when they were organizing a funeral that I found devastating—like that of a young mother, or a kid my age. Having some random girl blubber about a stranger’s hardships would only make things harder for clients.

“I had to learn how to mask sadness,” I admit.

He continues to rub comforting strokes with his thumb, swaying us gently.

“My mom told me the most important role of the family business was not only to provide an honorable farewell to our decedents, but to provide comfort to those who were suffering… We don’t cry.” I repeat the words she spoke so many times. “We have to be strong. Always.”

I can still hear her voice in my head. The soft cadence. The compassionate tone.

“I wanted so badly to become an unbreakable force of nature like her that I stopped crying altogether. I can’t remember shedding a single tear during my teenage years. And my most recent case wasn’t even an emotional reaction. It was when I moved houses and tripped while holding a thin glass vase. It shattered and stabbed me straight in the chest.”

I lean back and make the mistake of pointing to the small, faded scar above my left breast.

His attention follows my finger, the hard flex of his jaw making my skin burn.

He clears his throat. “That tracks. You’re pretty lethal with a vase.”

I grin. “You should see me with a scalpel.”

“No, thanks. I’m already having a hard time controlling my lust.” He leans in, surprising me with a chaste kiss to my forehead. A chaste kiss that sizzles right through me, scorching every organ I possess. “Your mom sounds like a wonderful woman.”

“She was.” I breathe through all the sizzling. The heart palpitations and undeniable chemistry, too. “Do you speak to yours often? I know the relationship with your dad was… troubled, but what about your mom?”

He pivots us slightly, sending us swaying in the opposite direction. “We’re not much for talking. Her teaming up with my father in the whole offspring murder plot kinda put a dampener on our relationship. And besides, she hasn’t been allowed a lot of call time since being imprisoned in the basement of one of Lorenzo’s mansions.”

I stop moving, shock rendering me immobile.

“Keep dancing, Ollie.” He guides me back into movement. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” I struggle to fathom the complexity of his life. “Every time you talk about your family I don’t think it can get any worse.”

“It’s not my family—only my parents. My siblings and I stuck together as best we could.”

“Remy, your brother stabbed you.”

He hits me with a devilish grin. “Yeah, but I did have a gun held to the woman he loves.”

“What?” I gape. “Why?”

“It’s a long story. One that isn’t meant for a night like this.”

I nod, appreciating that he’s shared insight into his life at all. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to tell me as much as you do? It’s incriminating.”

“It is. So do me a solid and quit being someone I want to share my secrets with.”

My breath stalls in my lungs, my vulnerability toward his statement cut short by a chair scraping behind us.

---