Page 483 of The Winslow Brothers

“Whatever, Rem.” I roll my eyes, but I also shut my trap because I can’t deny the truth. I’m incorrigible when it comes to surprises. If I have any inkling there’s about to be a surprise of some sort, I can’t stop myself from trying to figure out what it is.

Birthday presents. Christmas. You name it, and I’ve probably ruined many a surprise throughout my life.

We walk another block or so before Remy guides us onto another street, and it’s not long before he’s coming to a stop in front of a rustic-looking brick building.

“Surprise,” he says, and I look at him curiously before allowing my eyes to read the sign above our heads.

“Jacob’s Pickles?”

“You ever been here?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Can’t say I have.”

“Do you still love pickles on your sandwiches as much as you did back in high school?”

I laugh. “I can’t believe you remember that, but yes.”

“Maria, I used to go with you to that little diner near the public library after school because you were obsessed with their chicken sandwiches.Extra pickles on the sandwich and extra pickles on the side,” he repeats my old order. “I even recall a few times you convinced me to play hooky at lunch just so I could help you satisfy your crazy pickle cravings.”

“Excuse me? Crazy cravings?” I put a hand to my hip. “Pickles on chicken sandwiches are everything. Anyone who thinks otherwise needs their head checked.”

Remy just grins. “Well, let me be the first to introduce you to the best fucking pickles that you’ll ever taste in your life.”

My eyes go wide. “I hope you realize those are some big promises.”

“Promises I stand by, Ria.”

Not Maria or Ri. ButRia. That’s what Remy always used to call me back in the day. He was the only one to use that nickname, and when I was a high school girl with first love in her eyes, it felt likeeverything.

It still kind of does.

I let Remy guide me inside the restaurant, and in a matter of minutes, we’re seated at a cozy booth in the back corner. Arequest made specifically by the man still wearing Izzy on his chest.

“Here,” I say and hold out both of my hands. “I can hold her while we eat.”

“Ah-ah.” He shakes his index finger at me. “She’s still sleeping. So, we’re good just like this.”

“But how are you going to eat with her strapped to your chest like that?”

“I’ll manage,” he answers without hesitation and hands me a menu. “And you work on figuring out what you want to eat.”

“Are you sure? Because I can—”

“Ria, can you do me a favor?” he asks, and I tilt my head to the side.

“What?”

“Will you try to relax and just…enjoy this meal?” His eyes turn soft, and he reaches out to place his hand over mine. “Don’t worry about me or Izzy. Just…order all the fucking pickles your heart desires,” he says while grinning. “And relax. You deserve it. You’re a great mom, and great moms deserve a break sometimes, okay?”

For some insane reason, I want to cry at his words. But not because they make me feel bad. Actually, they make me feel so good the relief they provide is overwhelming.

All I can do is swallow hard against the emotion and nod.

“Okay. Deal.”

“Lovely doing business with you.” He gently squeezes my hand before letting it go to grab his menu. He peruses the dinner options, and I just sit there, looking at my own menu.

But mostly, my mind races and wonders, How, after all these years, is Remy Winslow here, with me?

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