Page 177 of Remy

There’s no ring. And no pockets on the dress.

She didn’t even bring a purse or phone.

“Where?” I frown.

She grabs the bottom of her thick braid, tapping a finger against the elastic holding it together, and there, glinting in the soft light of the dash, is a tiny slither of white gold. “Most of it is hidden in my hair. But I made sure it was tied to the elastic so I don’t lose it. Apart from when I was in the pool I haven’t taken it off.”

Something potent and possessive pulses inside me.

“Will you tell me why you engraved it with Property of Remy Costa?” She releases the braid, her hands falling to her lap. “Does it have a hidden meaning?”

I shrug, taking the next left to drive onto the main road through town.

“Tell me.” She shifts her body to face me, her cheek nestled against the headrest in that cute way she did on the way here from Baltimore. It makes me feel like I’m the center of her attention. Her entire world, if only for a moment. “Are you concerned about dementia and want all your possessions properly labelled?”

I snort.

“Is it a security measure so nobody steals it?” she asks.

I roll my eyes. “No.”

“Do you give your rings as keepsakes to all the women you’ve shared memorable moments?—”

“No,” I answer too quickly. Too gruffly. “There are no other women.” I temper my tone, and this time my voice comes out quieter. Like I’m a fucking pussy. There’s no goddamn balance when it comes to my response to her. “The ring is engraved because when I was given access to unmanaged funds for the first time in my life, I guess I wanted something to mark the occasion. It felt like the ownership of something was a fuck you to my parents.”

“You hadn’t owned anything before this ring?”

“Nothing that hadn’t required their permission.”

She keeps her fingers pressed against my ring, gently rubbing them back and forth. “And then you gave it to me.”

And then I gave it to her.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got backups.” I wiggle my fingers against the steering wheel, the streetlights glinting off the five rings still adorning my hands.

She keeps her eyes on me, increasing that kinetic energy as the car falls quiet. I’d give anything to careen into the closest parking space and slam my mouth against hers.

It would be the biggest mistake of all. Pulling her close. Breathing her in.

The memory of sliding my hand between her thighs is unignorable. But kissing her, tasting her… that shit would haunt me like the plague.

There’d be no going back from that.

“Quit staring at me, Pyro. You’ll only stir up trouble.”

She sighs, shifting her body back to face the street.

We approach the bright green building we passed on the way to dinner, the bar teeming with cars parked out the front.

I pull into a space at the far end of the row, cut the ignition, and sit staring at the outline of a martini glass illuminated in fluorescent light in the front window.

I should’ve taken her home with Carlo.

It’s too tempting being here alone with her.

“What happens once my father passes?” she murmurs. “With the agreement, I mean. Does it really just end or…”

“It ends.”

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