Page 5 of Forever Never
Red Gate Cottage was perched on the southern tip of the island, pinned right up against the water. It also just happened to be directly across the street from Brick’s house. She still wasn’t sure if that had been a factor in her decision.
“You’rethe reason Mrs. Sopp has me changing the batteries in the smoke detectors?”
“No reason to be an ass about it. Gimmie the batteries, and I’ll do it myself.”
“Yeah? So you can fall off a chair and break your other arm?” He started down the sidewalk, shaking his head and muttering uncomplimentary phrases.
She jogged to catch up as he strode past inns and souvenir shops shuttered for the season. “Does this crabby cowboy routine actually charm any girl out of her thermal underwear?” she asked.
“Shut up, Remi.”
Feeling marginally more cheerful now that she’d annoyed him, she fell into step and stuffed her hands into her pockets. It was a sunny, ten-degree morning. The light coating of snow on the road was groomed by snowmobiles, the island’s primary mode of transportation for the season. Snowmobiles, horses, and feet were a resident’s options for traversing the four miles of hilly, forested island.
To some folks, Mackinac Island was a novelty. An entire island without cars? A community with a shelf-life of about four months before the interminable, brutal winter set in?
But to Remi, it was home. And home meant healing.
They made the rest of the walk in silence. She hurried ahead of him to unlock the gate, painted a brash, lipstick red. Tall hedgerows protected the white brick cottage from prying eyes on the sidewalk, but the rambling two-story Victorian across the street could look right over it.
“You painted,” she said as Brick brushed past her with the groceries. The house had once belonged to his grandparents, who had opened their home to two troubled grandsons. Back then, it had been white on white on white. Now, the cedar shakes and board and batten sported a deep navy. The wide front porch centered on a red front door, a color combination Remi approved. He’d kept the low picket fence along the sidewalk a pearly white.
With the snowy front yard and low-growing evergreens, it was picture perfect.
He grunted—because Brick had a daily word allowance of about fifty—and headed around the side of the cottage to the front door. Rather than a porch, Red Gate had a low cedar platform. In the summer, there was a table and chairs with an umbrella for sitting and appreciating the unbeatable view. In the winter, the deck held neat stacks of wood for the small fireplace in the bedroom.
Remi unlocked the door and barely suppressed an eye-roll when the mountain of a man insisted she go in first. Grumpy chivalry held a limited charm.
The cottage, on the other hand, was overflowing with it.
Agnes Sopp—Mackinac’s real estate mogul—had redone it with wide plank pine floors and creamy stucco walls. In the living room, an off-white sofa with deep cushions faced the gas fireplace. The kitchen was tiny, with white cabinets and glossy butcher block. But a small, stainless steel island on wheels added storage and counter space. The windows on the front wall had all been replaced to make the most of the view.
And what a view it was.
The inky, gray waters of Lake Huron stretched out to infinity in front of the cottage, constant and dependable. Just like the man prowling her space. He stalked into the kitchen, taking up all of the space with his cowboy shoulders and grumpy competence.
Andthat, she realized as she shed her boots and coat, was why she’d come back. To be just close enough to feel safe again. Despite his protestations, Brick Callan cared about her. There was something in his spirit that demanded that all the people he cared about be safe. She envisioned him running around like a cattle dog, nipping at the heels of the people of Mackinac, keeping them all from harm’s way.
She let out a sigh. Nothing good ever came from mooning over the ungettable man. Besides, she had bigger, more dangerous problems on her hands.
He produced a blister pack of batteries from one of the bags. She watched as he efficiently popped the cover on the first smoke detector without needing a chair or stepladder and wished she could curl up on the couch and sleep while he was here. While she was safe.
She climbed into one of the blue velvet swivel armchairs in front of the window. Turning her back to the lake, she pulled her knees up to her chin and watched him grudgingly take care of her.
Covers clipped back into place, he pitched the packaging and old batteries into the trash bin under the sink.
“Do you do a lot of maintenance for Agnes?” Remi asked.
He turned to look at her, and when those long legs of his ate up the space between them, she scooted back in the chair. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to do, but it certainly wasn’t to take her right hand gently in his and push up the sleeve of her oversized sweater.
She had hugged, kissed, poked, prodded, and leaned into him about a thousand times over the years. There was a spark of something special every time they touched. It fascinated her. Comforted her. Confounded her. But the very thing that attracted her to Brick seemed to repel him from her. She could count on one hand the number of times the man had voluntarily touched her first.
“How the hell did you do this?” he demanded. His voice was stern, but the way he held her hand as he examined the plaster was almost tender.
“It wasn’tmyfault,” she insisted, not sure if that was indeed the truth.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it feels great. Ofcourseit hurts. It’s a broken arm,” she snapped.
