Page 70 of Remy

Civility is where this relationship needs to be. And only civility.

“No, pyro.” I force myself to grab the garment bag from the chair and head toward her bathroom. “I may not kill for sport, but I sure as hell do it for profit and convenience. Never forget that.”

15

OLIVIA

My alarm sounds at six-thirty Monday morning but I’m already awake, staring at the ceiling, worrying about my father and promising myself today will be better than the nightmare weekend.

Sunday consisted of absolutely nothing but an epic battle to keep my distance from Remy.

We spoke very little after breakfast when he’d walked away. I’d remained at the dining table, confused over what had happened.

The entire color wheel of emotions I’ve felt for this man isn’t healthy. The heart-crushing rage. The chaotic fear.

The worst is the lust. That unconscious, loathsome feeling had flooded me Saturday night while I’d been smothered against the hall drywall, listening to him paint a verbal masterpiece of what he’d wanted to do to me at the dive bar.

I should’ve been disgusted. Revulsed.

Yet my pulse had raced with rapture.

Or maybe it was adrenaline.

I’d just escaped another life-threatening situation and my blood was all hot and tingly. Since then, I’ve promised myself I’ll never rile him again.

I don’t want him in my face. His cologne drugging me. Those eyes captivating me.

I’ve accepted my fate for the most part. At least where my father’s illegal alignment is concerned.

I’ll play nice. I have no choice.

I fling back the covers and haul a fresh set of clothes to the bathroom so I can shower and change into a light grey pantsuit. When I open the door to step back into the hall, my hair damp around my cheeks and face devoid of makeup, Remy is standing in wait.

I swallow a shocked inhale at his overbearing presence.

He’s dressed in yet another dark ensemble. Charcoal suit. Matching shirt.

I want to ask if all the food and clothes deliveries that have made their way to my front door have been fulfilled by the same “kid” who was here Sunday morning and not by a long list of criminal psychopaths. But I keep my anxiety at bay for the sake of peace.

“Hi.” I avert my gaze and maneuver around him, a renewed scent of woodsy cologne warming my insides as I pass.

I already presumed he’d used the shower. Water droplets had clung to the tile walls when I’d entered. But I should’ve better prepared myself for the sight of him fresh and cleanshaven, his hair perfectly tousled.

“Morning.” He follows me to my room and stops at the door while I continue inside. “How long until you need to be driven to work?”

A resurgence of dread tightens my throat. “I don’t need to be driven. I assumed we’d go our separate ways today.”

He can’t follow me to the funeral home. There’s no time for the distracted curiosity he’d attract from Ivy and Allison when Alexandra’s funeral is this morning. There’s going to be news crews. Local celebrities. A huge crowd. We’ll already be down one team member if Hugo accepted his position on the unemployment line. Maybe two, if Dad isn’t at his best. Then there’s the added catering staff that need to be managed.

“We are going separate ways.” Remy cocks his shoulder against the doorframe. “For the most part. But I’ve arranged for you to be supervised.”

The dread squeezes tighter.

Is he talking about video surveillance? Did he bug the funeral home?

Surely that would be counterintuitive.

“What does that me?—”

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