Page 544 of The Winslow Brothers

“They’re not,” he cuts me off to comfort.

I shake my head. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I can think of three options, and all of them have the same answer. We will talk later. Hash out the game footage. Really go through the whole thing.”

My head jerks back. “Whoa, whoa, I’m not saying I want to—”

“Oh, we’re going to,” he promises lightly. “We’re going to get into it. Just nothere, you know?”

I sigh and then, finally, nod my agreement. He’s right, after all. It’s not like I’d feel comfortable having the kind of conversation we really need to have smack-dab in the middle of a busy Manhattan restaurant.

“Now, tell me how your showings went today,” he says, and it’s the opening that’s needed to move our conversation away from the s-e-x subject.

I tell him about Conrad Blakely, even the whole story about Claudia telling him I had diarrhea last night, and by the time our food comes to the table, we’re back to our usual fun banter that’s been there since the very beginning of when Remy and Maria were even a thing.

But just before I’m about to cut into my chicken, I can’t help but notice that Remy’s rice looks an awful lot like mashed potatoes. For some reason, though, Remy doesn’t say anything, smilingdown at his plate instead and then turning to look at Izzy at his chest.

“Um, excuse me, sorry,” I say to get the waiter’s attention as he moves to head back toward the kitchen. “I don’t want to be a bother, but his mashed potatoes were supposed to be rice.”

The busy waiter glances back at Remy’s plate and seemingly sees it for the first time. I’m sure he’s dead on his feet.

“Oh no,” he agrees then. “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head. “No, don’t apologize! We can see you’re slammed. But if you don’t mind switching it out when you get a chance, we’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course!” he says, jumping forward and scooping up Remy’s plate. “I’ll be right back with it.” I make a mental note to give him a bigger tip, just to make up for him having to run back and forth an extra time.

But when he steps away with the plate, Remy is looking at me with an intensity I can’t exactly place. “What? What is it?”

“You didn’t have to do that. I would have eaten the potatoes.”

“I know you would have. But you deserve to eat what you want.”

“Are you taking care of me, Maria Baros?”

I blush a little, but then I straighten my spine. The truth is the truth. There’s no avoiding it. “I’m trying to.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re sure as hell taking care of me and Iz.” My own words make me smile. “The least I can do is return the favor every once in a while.”

But truth be told, with a glitter-cheeked, baby-wearing Remy staring back at me with the sweetest of gazes, I’m starting to think I’ll never be able to keep up.

Maria

As I round the bed to my nightstand to grab my nighttime moisturizer, the sight of Remy’s clean boxer briefs on the bed catches my attention.

He’s in the shower now, and the white noise of the water and steam from the small crack in the door send my mind racing with visualizations.

He’s naked, in my bathroom, right now, and I’m not doing anything about it. Izzy is sound asleep, exhausted from her day in the city, so I don’t even have that as an excuse, but I can’t get myself to stop thinking long enough to enjoy the moment.

It’s big—this thing that’s going on here. Momentous, even. And without taking any time to process it or talk it out, I’m afraid Remy is missing that. I mean, after dinner, he ran to his place to grab some stuff and came backhere, to my place, to stay the night again.

There’s a whole boatload of things happening around us, and we’re going to have to face them head on at some point…right?

Shaking my head, I grab the moisturizer jar from my nightstand and head across the room toward my door, bound for the livingroom, but the sound of Remy’s phone buzzing on the bedside table makes me pause.

I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t. It’s an invasion of privacy and beyond none of my business. But it’s also going on nearly eleven p.m., and the devil on my shoulder likes to think she knows what that means.

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