Chapter 6
Remi was two hours late, and the goat was entirely to blame.
Or so she told herself on the drive over.
In truth, the goat had been delivered by ten in the morning, loud and wet and certain of its own importance.
Kneeling in the hay, she coaxed and carefully handled the newborn as her father and the twins soothed the mother, who was too exhausted to do much more than breathe.
By eleven, she was washed and functional.
Plenty of time to choose from the ridiculous number of outfits she’d stuffed in her backpack before racing out the door when she’d gotten her brother’s frantic call.
There was no reason she shouldn’t have made it to the party at one, or if she wanted to be fashionably late, half past.
But when was she ever fashionable?
Her days were spent working the goat farm, covered in goat hair, blood, or excrement, depending on the day, and sometimes all three. Raising the prized animals for the Palmchat Islands’ Christmas goat tradition was a full-time job. One that she loved more than anything.
Almost anything.
Still, she found herself making more than an effort today, and the baby goat was not to blame.
With the mottled, gnarled scars on her torso hidden under a strapless body suit, she’d stood in the mirror and almost felt normal.
Like the days of old, trying on outfits and discarding them, searching for the perfect one.
Four dresses. She'd tried on four dresses before settling on the coral sleeveless shift. The fabric was light enough for the afternoon heat. The cut was simple and practical.
Neither was the real reason.
Everett had once told her, on a July afternoon years ago with rum punch in their hands and the Atlantic burning orange behind them, that this particular color made her skin glow like it was lit from the inside.
The look of awe in his eyes as he trailed a finger lightly across her skin had sent shivers through her.
He had said it the way he said everything, flat and certain, as if he were reporting the weather.
She had laughed to cover what it did to her. She hadn't forgotten it since.
Oh God, she was a terrible wife.
The thought crashed in on schedule, the way it always did when she got lost in memories of him.
She didn't push the guilt away. She'd earned it after what she’d done.
When Gabrielle called yesterday to tell her that Everett had confirmed he was still planning to come, knowing she would be there, Remi had been relieved.
She understood Everett better than anyone. Knew why he’d walked away from her. Why he couldn’t be with her anymore. Couldn’t see her the same way. Love her like he had.
She’d asked him to do the one thing she knew would cost him everything.
Made the request at the lowest point of her life, recovering from multiple surgeries and struggling with a grief she didn't yet know how to carry. Didn’t know if she could carry it if there wasn’t retribution for what happened to her. Not justice. Vengeance.
Everett had done what she’d asked.
Without hesitation.
And she’d lost him because of it.
She didn't have the right to ask any more of him.
What she did have, apparently, was a coral dress and a pair of sandals that were marginally appropriate for standing in someone else's garden and wanting things she was not allowed to want.
Stepping through the garden entrance of Rocco and Jemma's bungalow, she paused to let the scene settle around her.
The calypso band in the far corner was unhurried, their rhythm something you absorbed rather than heard.
A few guests danced to the tropical beats, swaying and laughing, full of joy.
Guests filled the teak furniture arranged in loose groupings across the lawn, and conversations hummed in the air.
Jerk smoke drifted from the grill as the chefs struggled to keep up with the constant flow of traffic requesting more.
Her gaze drifted to the back stone wall, bordering the beach and ocean in the distance.
That’s when she saw him.
Everett.
He stood at the far edge of the garden near the stone landing between Rocco and Sebastian.
He wore linen trousers the color of pale stone and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled, collar open.
He looked the way he had always looked in a room full of people, like he belonged to none of it and was merely allowing it to occur around him.
A testament to his Connecticut old-money upbringing.
How a man with his pedigree had fallen in love with the daughter of a cartel enforcer, she still couldn’t fathom. Even if it had been her life.
Her gaze drifted to his face.
Light golden brown skin, smooth and flawless except for the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. And his mouth. Full lips, perfectly shaped, the lower one fuller than the top, in a way made for slow kisses and wicked promises.
But it was his eyes that made her breath catch.
A kaleidoscope of pale blue and translucent gray changing every few seconds like a hypnotic spell being cast over her. His gaze grew in intensity and settled directly on her, through the crowd and over the yards separating them. Damn him.
She closed her eyes, willing her heart to stop pounding out of her chest.
When she opened them again, he was gone.
Three years of practiced distance, of choreographed avoidance, of steering in the opposite direction when they were in the same room was supposed to end … today. At this party.
One conversation.
That’s all she needed.
To hear him speak directly to her again. Find out if his voice still shifted when he talked to her, slowing in cadence as if he treasured every word before it left his lips. Soft around the edges, lowered in timbre, and dripping with love.
She propelled forward, down the terrace steps and across the lawn, searching for him.
He was the only reason she’d agreed to come to this party.
For this one chance, without Bobby around to prevent it from happening.
Making a lap of the perimeter of the yard, she found him minutes later, standing near the edge of the coffee bar.
A barista stood like a sentry in front of rows of ceramic canisters labeled in Hullabaloo’s signature script.
The names read like a climate tour: Tropics Dark Roast, Allegra Morning Blend, Felipe Especiale, Palmchat Pecan and Vanilla, Bishop's Reserve Cold Brew.
Glass apothecary jars lined the back table in graduated heights, filled with cinnamon sticks and cardamom pods and dried orange peel and demerara and three varieties of vanilla, the whole display backlit softly against the afternoon shade.
Everett tossed back the espresso in a single swallow, then grew still.
She remembered giggling between him, Bobby, and Ike as teens, getting high off caffeine as they wasted away lazy summer afternoons.
Back in the days when they were all close.
Before she and Everett had given in to the magnetic pull between them.
“What can I get you, miss?” The barista asked, disrupting her memories.
She opened her mouth to respond, but stopped when she heard his voice.
“May I?” Everett asked without turning to look at her.
Almost everything she’d hoped to hear was there. Almost.
“Sure.” She took a step closer. He was within touching distance. So close. Too close.
The barista waved a hand across the banquet table, giving him free rein.
Everett reached for a clear mug emblazoned with the Hullabaloo coffee logo.
He moved along the bar with the ease of someone who had done this many times in a different life.
He found the Lava Lavender blend and poured without hesitation.
Reaching for the sugar pot, he lifted a single cube with the tongs and set it inside.
The ceramic carafe of cream came next. Four slow drops.
Nothing more. Nothing less. From the back row of apothecary jars, he lifted a Tahitian vanilla bean and used the small spoon beside it to work out half a measure into the mug.
He stirred it slowly. He waited. He had always waited that extra moment before handing it over, the small ceremony of letting the flavors settle.
He turned and held the mug out to her.
She reached for it, and his knuckle grazed the side of her hand.
The kind of contact that under any other set of circumstances would register as nothing, a transaction, a handoff.
But her nerve endings had a different accounting system.
Something moved through her before she could stop it, a flare of heat that surfaced and was gone so fast she wasn’t entirely certain it had happened.
One touch. From Everett's hand. That was all it had taken.
What would happen if he touched her more?
She pushed the thought away so hard she felt the effort of it.
"Perfect," she said, staring at the mug. "Just like I like it."
"Or how you used to."
She looked up. She hadn't meant to. But his voice had dropped on the last word in a way that made the statement into something more than about coffee. Her eyes found his before her better judgment could intervene.
"It's how I always … want … my coffee.” The words came out breathier than she meant them.
His jaw moved once.
"Enjoy," he said, and turned away.
"Everett."
He stopped.
She watched his shoulders settle, the slight recalibration of a man who had stayed when every sensible version of him was saying otherwise.
He turned, closing the distance between them to mere inches.
“Yes?”
She cleared her throat and gripped the mug, focusing on the hot liquid burning through the glass against her skin.
“Umm … I never properly thanked you," Remi said.
A flash of amused confusion played on his face. But he didn’t speak.
She cleared her throat, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a blazing red metal card etched with a stingray.
“For this. Someone from my dad’s old network got hold of one, used it, and she’s safe now.
The security guy who got intel to free her sounded a lot like you. What you’re doing is good.”
Everett went still. He wouldn’t confirm the truth. She knew that. But she wanted him to know how proud she was of the work he was doing. That he’d found his way back to part of the man he’d been before her.
Finally, he nodded, then said, “And are you good?”
“Yeah, I’m good,” she said too quickly. Too cheery.
“Remington …” Her name on his lips was like a sonnet.
He leaned forward, closing the scant distance separating them.
His gray eyes brightened and softened as his gaze caressed her face.
She wasn’t sure she could handle much more of him.
Her hesitation registered on his face from mild interest to intense curiosity to concern, and now the veil of protectiveness was falling into place.
His body coiled into readiness to act, defend … destroy if necessary.
She had to say something. Anything. Before it was too late.
Looking away, she refocused on the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. She got the conversation she wanted with him, and it brought a genuine smile to her face.
“I’m really good, Everett. Truly.” She raised the mug and took a sip. Only he could make moments this perfect for her. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”
She turned and moved back into the party to find Gabrielle.
She didn’t look back.
It never helped.