Chapter 17 Chicago, 1928—Remy #3
They ambled hand in hand along the weathered walkway bordering the vast Lake Michigan shoreline.
Above them, the sun wrestled with scattered clouds, and a brisk, refreshing breeze, offering a reprieve from the stifling confines of Violet’s car, swept across the water.
It served as the perfect excuse to clasp Skye close and breathe in her jasmine-and-rose perfume.
“Do you know what sort of secrets? Are they about people you love?” Skye asked.
“Sort of, but it’s more about the future of our planet.” He expected Skye to laugh at that, but she didn’t.
“My mother’s wisdom profoundly shaped the person I am today.
She told me never to ridicule those who foresee the future.
If Violet possesses a true glimpse of what lies ahead, I’ll give her my full attention.
The future isn’t to be feared. It’s an exhilarating frontier.
The prospect of knowing what is to come is not just intriguing—it’s electrifying. ”
That left him speechless. After a beat or two, he said, “Your mother was very open-minded.”
“I think that’s why I didn’t go to public school. Mama didn’t want other teachers to fill my head with nonsense, so she taught me at home.”
“What kind of nonsense?”
“She never said, but I got the feeling she expected me to forge a path of my own and resist limitations imposed by others. When I turned sixteen, she said I’d learned everything she could teach me, and it was time to broaden my horizons.
All I wanted to do was perform. My parents told me that after I graduated from college, I could pursue my music.
They wanted me to have a career I could fall back on if music didn’t pan out. ”
“Your hard work shows. I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished. You’re an intelligent, talented, fearless, and beautiful woman, and I’m lucky to have met you.”
Skye’s face beamed with delight. “My mother told me if a man ever said that to me, I should latch on to him for the ride of my life and never doubt his intentions.”
He watched her—the high cheekbones, the curve of her nose, the little furrow of concentration as she navigated the sexual tension between them. “Your mother must have been a suffragette.”
“She was,” Skye said, her voice catching. “When the Nineteenth Amendment passed, we had a party to celebrate. She was so happy—and when she got sick, I’d often think back to that night.”
“I’m glad your mother lived long enough to see that,” Remy said quietly.
“So am I.”
The dam of his restraint finally gave way.
Another minute of distance felt impossible.
The moment demanded he take it—carefully.
He brushed a light kiss to the tip of her nose.
When her eyes fluttered open, sunlight caught the faint sheen on her lips, a silent invitation he couldn’t ignore.
He kissed her, tasting the lemonade’s tartness.
Every nerve urged him to deepen it, but he held the line, keeping the kiss a slow burn instead of a blaze.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her mouth.
“Stop.”
He pulled back at once.
She jerked her head back, clearly startled.
“If a woman doesn’t want me,” he said evenly, “I’ll never force myself on her.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you—I do.” She glanced up and down the boardwalk. “Just not in front of hundreds of people.”
He kissed her forehead, brief and reverent, though his body protested the restraint. “I’m not in favor of it either.” He tucked her arm into the crook of his and set off down the boardwalk, counting on the breeze to cool what willpower alone could not.
“When we first met,” she said, “I thought you were interested in Marcelle.”
“I thought you were into Clay.”
“He’s not my type.”
“What is your type?”
She stopped and placed her hands on his chest, fingers grazing his lapels as she considered the question. “A musician, for sure. Considerate. Intelligent. Handsome. Earthy. Someone who can take care of himself—and the people he cares for.” She smiled faintly. “Clay’s different.”
Remy tilted his head. “What do you mean by earthy?”
“Uninhibited. I’d rather you not use profanity, but an occasional fuck here or there in rehearsal or backstage doesn’t offend me. But it doesn’t belong on stage or in polite company.”
“Okay, I got the earthy part, but how is Clay different?”
“He has many of the same characteristics, but spends too much time in his head.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s a writer, and his mind is always putting thoughts into words and onto paper. But I can’t figure out why you’re so different from other musicians I’ve met. In a way, you’re like my father—worldly, I guess.”
“I’m not from here.”
“I know you’re not from Chicago, but you’re even different from the men I’ve met from New Orleans, which is where you’re from originally. Right?”
He burned to tell her where he was from. Not just to justify his difference, but to lay bare the desperate question—would she come home with him? He already knew he was a lost cause, hopelessly in love. But the fear, raw and real, was that she’d turn away and shatter his heart.
“I’ve traveled the world, fought in a war, watched people die, and saved a few. I plan to go to medical school, get married, have children, and do what I can to save the things we value the most.”
“What about your music?”
“I’ll always have my music.” He crushed his mouth to hers, not caring about the chattering people walking on the creaky wooden planks.
If they wanted to gawk, let them. Gone was the tartness.
Her mouth was sweet fire, an intoxicating invitation, and created a sensual image in his mind.
He gathered her close, claiming her body, demanding she shut out the rest of the world with all its complications, leaving only the steady sigh of the waves and the piercing cries of the gulls.
It wouldn’t take much for this kiss to slide into another.
But his soldier’s instincts kicked in. He straightened and brushed back her hair, teasing the folds of her ear. “Can we pick this up later?”
She laughed softly, gazing up at him. “Of course.”
Until they picked it back up, he would wait patiently, or try to, until he gazed down at her, naked beneath him.