I can be rude.
And I can steal a plastic chair for no other reason than because Remington wants it.
Maybe that’s not the right way to be, but for someone who has lived her life trying to please a mother who hated her, it’s nice to have someone accept me for me—all the ugly parts included.
Scanning the area, I make sure no one is looking and grab the chair and then nearly sprint back to our room. This new me might be braver, but maybe not as brave as Remington.
And that’s okay.
I’m a work-in-progress.
“Honey, I’m home!” I yell, finding the door cracked when I leave the chair outside. “Did you drown?” I laugh, noting steam billowing out from the bathroom. “What am I saying? Even if you died, Satan would give you back.” There’s only room for one fallen angel in this universe, and Remington claimed that title when he ascended the plastic throne.
“Eve,” he calls out, his voice muffled like he’s in the middle of brushing his teeth. “I hope you don’t think I’m actually listening.”
I bark out a laugh. “Of course not. I would never dream of having your attention.”
The water turns off, and I hear him spit before he appears in the doorway. “Good,” he claims. “As long as you’re realistic with your expectations.”
I have no idea what he just said. I mean, I heard the words, but I didn’t digest them because…damn.
Standing before me is no man.
No, this being is God’s most prized creation.
Remington is a flawed masterpiece as he stands there with a towel hanging low at his hips. His shoulders are sculpted with lines of sharp bones and strong muscles that flow into a chiseled chest, complete with rock-hard pecs.
“Wow.” I breathe, not bothering to conceal my assessment of his exquisite perfection. “You’re beautiful.”
He scoffs, but he doesn’t move or say anything shitty. It’s like he wants me to look at him—to pretend this moment is for my benefit and not because he wants to know what I think of him. Remington is showing me what I showed him earlier. He’s baring a part of himself that he normally hides behind smoke and leather.
My eyes drift lower, taking in the ripple of his abs that look as if they, too, yearn to make him proud by being sharp and stunning against his smooth skin.
But it’s the distinct scar that runs from his hip bone and disappears under the waistband of his towel that is the most extraordinary feature. An exquisite specimen of scarred perfection. I want to reach out and drag my finger along the faded skin that contrasts so drastically against the rest of him, but I keep my hands at my side, knowing he’d like nothing more than for me to ask him about the scar, so he can use it as an excuse to shut me out like he always does when things get too personal.
So, I don’t.
I speak his love language—sarcasm. “I knew someone tried to kill you.”
The tension between us seems to deflate the instant he grins. “I told you…” he quips, heading to his bag sitting on the ugly bedspread. “I’m the villain. I can’t be killed.”
But he can be hurt.
And that thought alone erases the smile on my face, but not before I fake an amused sound. “I’ll find us something to watch while you finish primping.”
“Can’t wait.”
I ignore the disgusted look on his face and choose to watch his tight ass walk back to the bathroom with his clothes before he shuts the door, cutting me off.
Locating my suitcase, I slip into pajamas and hide the surprise I picked up under my pillow.
I’ll take a shower later when Remington isn’t in such a fun mood. I’ve never been one to pass up a gift, and Remington actually being playful is the best gift after a tension-filled ride from the river.
“Found the remote,” I holler, flopping down onto the bed.
“Don’t care,” he answers just as enthusiastically.
Gah, he’s a keeper.