Chapter 41
Mallory Plantation—Remy
Remy refused to show up in everyday denim.
He meticulously devoted thirty minutes to his walk-in closet, curating a flawless look with a tailored navy blazer, the cornerstone of classic menswear.
He paired the blazer with razor-creased mid-gray wool trousers, complemented by a crisp button-down Oxford shirt tucked neatly into the waistline. The choice of footwear was deliberate—mirror-polished black Italian loafers that would catch the ambient light with every step.
The final touches whispered of true luxury. A distinguished L.U.C. watch, complemented by a statement ring crafted of yellow gold, diamonds, and a mysterious onyx.
This wasn’t just about clothes.
It was about creating a lasting impression—the very first time Skye would see him as a twenty-first-century man. Hopefully, a man she would want to spend the rest of her life with—in sickness and in health.
Marcelle, who had impeccable taste, had volunteered to style Skye for dinner, and Remy was utterly unprepared for the sight that greeted him in the foyer.
Marcelle had coaxed Skye’s lacquered bob and finger waves into a cascade of softness, and delicate tendrils feathered around her face. Gone was the stark makeup, and in its place was a modern look with a natural glow. The severe penciled eyebrows softened into a fuller arch.
She’d then dressed Skye in a yellow cashmere sweater, fitted black tailored trousers, a lavish Year of the Dragon neck scarf, and the sophisticated touch of black four-inch heels.
The resulting transformation was a masterpiece of understatement. And Skye wore her new look not just with confidence, but as her newly discovered skin.
“You look amazing!” He twirled her to get a full view. “You’re almost too hot to handle.”
There was a teasing glimmer in her eyes as she gave him a similar appreciative look. “Same goes for you, handsome.”
A powerful surge of all-consuming love encapsulated the breathtaking version of his soulmate.
An unfamiliar tightness gripped his chest, stealing his breath—an intensity far more overwhelming than mere nervousness.
But it quickly evaporated, replaced by a wave of longing.
Remy felt an intense desire to hold her close and savor the moment.
He wondered fleetingly if Charlotte would understand if they skipped dinner. The answer, he knew with certainty, was a resounding, unequivocal “no.”
He offered Skye his arm. “Are you ready for your first family dinner?”
“I survived our arrival. Will this be harder or easier?”
“Hmm. That’s a good question. Since you didn’t run for the door, you’ll do just fine.”
He guided her into the formal dining room.
The table was set with delicate bone china and sterling silver flatware.
An impressive centerpiece, overflowing with white and creamy roses, filled the room with a complex floral perfume.
The warm glow of candlelight cast an intimate shadow across the table.
Completing the sophisticated ambiance was the velvety sound of soft jazz, with a Miles Davis piece humming under the candlelight.
Oscar Peterson and Sarah Vaughan would probably round out the playlist.
“Everything is exquisite,” Skye said.
“Charlotte always sets an elegant table, but tonight she’s using the Mallory bone china. It’s very nuanced, but I’ve been to enough of these to know the differences in her china patterns. This one tells me she wants this dinner to be extra special.”
Skye’s smile widened. “You aren’t serious, are you?”
“About Charlotte wanting a special dinner? Yeah, I’m serious.”
Skye put her hands on her hips. “No. I’m talking about the china patterns. That you can differentiate between them.”
Kenzie waltzed into the room behind them. “Is Remy trying to impress you with his knowledge of fine dining and elegant place settings? He tried that on me a few years ago.”
“So, he’s making it up. He really doesn’t know china patterns?”
“Oh, no. Remy knows. If I spent as much time with Charlotte as he does, I’d know it, too.” Then she gave Skye the once-over. “You look amazing. Next time I need to dress for success, I’m calling Marcelle to style me. Love the finished look. I should have stayed, but I had kids to feed.”
“I’m glad you were there,” Skye said. “I wouldn’t have put on these shoes if you hadn’t convinced me they would impress Remy.”
“And I’m impressed.” He took Skye’s hand. “Let’s go find our place cards.” He started at Elliott’s place at the head of the table opposite Braham. “Well, look here. You get the second seat of honor. You’re next to Elliott.”
“Where are you?”
“Probably in the doghouse.”
She looked at the place card next to her seat. “You’re not in the doghouse. You’re next to me. Why is Elliott putting us so close to him?”
“He’s trying to impress you.” Remy slid her chair back, the legs scraping softly across the Persian rug as she lowered herself into the seat.
From behind, he pushed her gently toward the table, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her nape, a fleeting caress.
She threw a glance over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his, and the surge of raw energy between them was so intense, so immediate, that he was forced to break the connection before they hauled ass out of there on a five-second impulse.
Charlotte waltzed in, her posture effortlessly regal, her serene expression entirely betraying the previous two hours she’d dedicated to patient care. “Archibald is resting comfortably. Remy, would you check on him in an hour?”
He shot her a reassuring grin and a firm thumbs-up before tapping a quick reminder into his phone.
Then, for the next hour, the recent travelers shared stories of the dangerous energy in 1928 Chicago—tales of Al Capone’s iron grip, hidden speakeasies, and their heart-pounding escape.
When Remy’s timer chimed with a polite ping, he excused himself and reappeared twenty minutes later.
“Archibald’s vitals look good. He woke up briefly and asked Skye to sing to him. I told him you’d come by later.”
“I’ll do that,” she said.
“I’ll sit with him after dinner,” Clay said. “I told him I’d stay while everyone was eating, but he kicked me out. I’ll stay with him tonight.”
The clinking of silverware and bursts of laughter stretched the dinner for another two hours.
Remy excused himself once more to check on Archibald.
When he returned, he found Bastien and Charlotte deep in a quiet conversation.
Braham had likely told Charlotte about Bastien’s injury.
Knowing her, she was probably asking Bastien to stop by her surgery before he left town so she could examine his residual limb—infection was always a concern.
Remy slid back into his seat and tenderly captured Skye’s hand, lifting it to his lips to brush a soft kiss across her knuckles.
It was the first time he was attending a family function with a date—a significant moment that felt even more profound because Skye was much more than a casual companion. She was his forever girl.
As they stood to leave the table, Elliott said, “I want to see Remy, Clay, Bastien, Marcelle, and Kaitlyn in Braham’s office in ten minutes.” Elliott didn’t stomp out. He simply departed the room.
“What’s going on?” Remy asked Clay. “Elliott’s more distressed now than he was two hours ago.”
“That’s because he’s had time to digest the information in my journal. Guess he wants to talk about it.”
“But I doan. I’m tired, and talking about your meeting with Erik will only upset Elliott further. All I want to do is spend uninterrupted time with Skye.”
Clay gave a soft laugh. “You should tell him.”
“It woan do any good,” Remy grumbled. “When he sets his mind on a problem, he deals with it right away.”
Skye walked up to Remy and put her arm around his waist. “Any reason I’m not included in Elliott’s meeting?”
“You’re lucky. Be glad you weren’t in New York City when Erik showed up.”
She glanced around. “Who is Erik? Did I miss meeting someone?”
“He’s from the future.”
“But you’re from the future.”
“Right, but Erik is from way in the future. He also had a life in the past as a Viking.”
That wrung a tight smile out of her, as if it were normal to talk about Vikings. “You have me turning like a second hand—always moving, never landing. I’m going back to the room to take another shower.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him. “I’ll see you there.”
Braham ended the conversation he was having with Marcelle and reached for Skye’s elbow to keep her from leaving. “Where do ye think ye’re going, lass?”
Skye gave him a half-hearted shrug. “To my room. Elliott didn’t include me.”
“That was an oversight—Elliott assumed ye’d follow Remy.”
“But—”
“No buts. Come with me.”
She gave Remy a resigned shrug. “I guess I’m going.”
They entered the room to find Elliott standing behind the desk with Clay’s journal and a stack of papers in his hands. “Take a seat.”
They did, patiently, while Elliott continued reading. Then he set the journal and papers on the desk and sat down at the conference table.
Remy had a flashback to his tense meeting with Capone. If Elliott wanted to lock Remy and Skye away together, he’d gladly slide into that confined space with her.
Braham quietly shut the door, but it immediately opened, and Kenzie barged in, carrying a laptop. “Did you think you could leave me out of this discussion?” She sat in the desk chair and picked up Clay’s journal.
“Never,” Braham said.
“First,” Elliott said. “Thank ye, Clay, for being so thorough. After reading through yer list of questions, I couldn’t think of any ye didn’t ask. But I have a question for ye. Do ye think Erik was truthful?”