Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
I didn’t come this far to only come this far.
—From Remy’s Affirmations for a Badass
Remy
“This is, uh, the bedroom.” Remy motioned uncomfortably to the modest but tasteful surroundings. She’d never had much growing up, so she’d gotten into the habit of not needing much.
The room itself was stunning without much adornment.
The married couple who’d owned it and sold it on a quick relo had amazing taste.
A tray ceiling. Pale sage walls she hadn’t bothered to repaint.
Wainscoting abutted a floor-to-ceiling window that let in the morning sunshine.
Recognizing a peaceful refuge, Remy had placed a simple chair and ottoman in front of it, her preferred location for reviewing case notes.
Centered in the room was a simple queen-size bed with only a wrought iron headboard.
The headboard had belonged to the couple and they’d offered it to her, saying it didn’t fit the aesthetic of their new West Coast beachfront home.
Liking the vibe of the room in the mid-century Cape Cod, she’d accepted the couple’s generous offer for the headboard, along with a distressed white and pale green antique wood dresser with two coordinating nightstands.
Back at the brownstone she’d rented in an historic part of Baltimore, Remy hadn’t the need for much furniture, and what she did have, she’d donated to a women’s shelter.
She’d used a simple bed frame. No headboard, et cetera.
For her, bed had been a place for sleeping and nothing else.
When she’d had sex—to scratch an itch and nothing more—it had never been at her place.
“It’s really nice in here. I like it.” Sebastian’s pronouncement pulled her from her musings.
He stood next to her, but not too close, taking everything in with those expressive eyes that currently revealed frustratingly…
nothing. Remy couldn’t read him at all. And she really wanted to.
Especially following…whatever it was that had just happened.
Was he as freaked out as she was? Or was he employing every acting technique he knew to shut off some vein of emotion he’d tapped in himself?
She’d probably never know. After a few decadent, terrifying moments in The Embrace downstairs, Remy had gotten the sense Sebastian was going to say something that couldn’t be unsaid—unheard—and yanked herself away, propelling herself as far from him as she could get while still being in the same room.
Flop sweat had slid down her spine as her fight, flight, or freeze response kicked in to protect her from the vulnerable position.
Offering the thin excuse that she needed to get to sleep because of her early morning the next day, she’d quickly settled Chicane for the night—burying her face in the comfort of his fur for a steadying breath or ten—and then managed to walk calmly to the primary bedroom on shaking legs.
Sebastian had followed quietly. They’d barely exchanged words—Remy quite sure she didn’t want to address what had just happened between them and silently willing him not to bring it up.
Because something unnamable and undefinable had happened. And could never happen again.
Thankfully, Sebastian read the room and restrained his golden retriever tendencies. Watching his atypical awkwardness, Remy was struck with the realization that he may have been just as disturbed…disrupted…discombobulated as she’d been.
“It doesn’t seem like your taste,” he offered quietly, now moving around to look through the large window. “Shift change,” he noted absently, observing two of the three-person team now assigned to protect their every move.
Remy folded her arms. “And what would my taste be?”
“I don’t know.” Sebastian shrugged, still looking out the window, where twilight had shifted to darkness. “But I don’t think this is it.”
Remy dropped her head forward and then released a laugh of capitulation. “How do you do that?”
He turned to face her, his gaze neutral. “Do what?”
“Know that”—she waved her hands around, motioning to the room’s contents—“about me?”
“I don’t know. It just strikes me as a very intentional look. Very detailed. Maybe even a bit whimsical. And you, my queen, strike me as someone who wouldn’t bother with that.”
Remy shook her head, looking at the ceiling, a smile forming on her lips despite the disquiet still churning in her belly from the earlier interlude and the surreal vision of a movie star standing in her bedroom. Where he would sleep. For at least the next year. As her husband.
It really was disconcerting how clearly he saw her. Being paid attention to with that level of care and focus was something that hadn’t happened in a very long time. Not since the Remingtons.
“This house belonged to a couple with impressive taste and apparently sufficient disposable income to spend on home improvement projects. One of them got an incredible ‘drop everything and go’ job offer on the West Coast. He left quickly, leaving his husband to sort a rapid relo sale. It was a right place, right time situation for me. They offered me the bedroom furniture and I didn’t see a reason not to take them up on it.
I did get a new mattress.” Remy’s cheeks heated.
Was she blushing? Other than hot flashes burning her up from within, Remy never blushed.
And, yet, at the mention of a mattress, there she was, red-faced like a virgin bride on her wedding night.
That was an unfortunate mental metaphor. Now all Remy could do was picture her and Sebastian on a honeymoon. Her, virginal and untouched—not just by a man, but by the hellscape that had been her life. And him, folding her into the refuge of his arms, loving her with his body and gentle soul.
Nope. Nope. Nope! She would not do this. She barely recognized this woman standing in her skin, lost in a fantasy.
Remy needed to get her mind back on track and focused, which had been her shield and salvation—out of necessity—for as long as she’d been alive.
Good God. If this is how things were starting, it was going to be a long year.