Felix’s head tilted, but he was certainly not going to rise to the bait of someone so unequal to him in sparring ability. “In that case, goodbye. I think of you all fondly and wish you the best.”
Fiona didn’t doubt that Felix thought fondly of the O’Sullivans nowadays. He had that luxury because he no longer had to interact with her large clan. While they’d been married, he’d viewed her family as a trial to be borne.
His Irish-American ancestors—beginning with the legendary Finbar Camden—had all been shrewd with money, daring, and frequently unscrupulous. They’d become the titans of the Gilded Age back when Fiona’s ancestors had been working in their factories.
Felix’s interactions with his family were distant and formal. They all did their own independent, successful things, meeting up from time to time to attend graduations from Harvard or weddings held at historic stone chapels. None of them showed an overabundance of emotion nor an unseemly reliance on the others.
Felix finished his remarks with, “Go Patriots.”
“Go Patriots,” the room replied because a statement in support of the Patriots could never be left hanging in this portion of the United States.
Felix nodded to Fiona, gently disengaged himself from Mom, fist-bumped Jude, and disappeared.
In his wake, he left unsettled silence.
Mood killer. Half dismayed by his ability to suck the levity from a room and half entertained by it, Fiona clapped her hands twice. “All right, everyone! We’ve had our fulfilling little spectacle for the day. Let’s get back to what’s most important. Eating snacks and watching football.”
Everyone concurred except Mom. “Where did Felix go?” She blinked, bewildered.
“He had errands to run, Grandma,” Jude answered, enfolding her in a hug.
“But he missed the lemon squares,” Mom said.
Thirty hours had passed since Jeremiah’s fight with Remy.
Thirty hours. And she had not reached out to him.
He was lying on the waterboard Leigh called a bed. His body and heart were exhausted, but he couldn’t get his mind to turn off. Lying on his back, he thrust a forearm under his head and scowled through the dark at the popcorn ceiling.
He’d screwed up and he was furious with himself because of it.
He knew Remy’s history. He’d planned to be as patient as she needed him to be. He’d even told her, when he’d first learned about Gavin, that they could go slow, at her pace. He’d told her that.
Due to his parents’ scandals and the attention that followed their family wherever they went, he’d learned control early. But the things Remy had said to him yesterday had injured him, and he'd let his control slip a few inches.
He’d been reliving their exchange over and over. His curse was that he remembered every word.
“It’s not as if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend,”she’d said.“It's hard to imagine how this relationship could work out well for you and me. How can I ever trust the person who just accused me of letting Gavin win?”
He felt so much for her and he’d let all the things he felt crack some of his restraint. Like a rookie. Like a selfish idiot. He should have hung on to every inch of his restraintbecausehe felt so much for her. He hadn’t. Instead, he’d said what he was thinking and gambled the relationship he valued most. Then lost.
His hands formed fists. He pushed the thumb-side of both against his eye sockets.
He’d spent the day stewing with anxiety and regret.
It was embarrassing how worthless he was at doing anything—even sleeping—while in this headspace. He’d fought with Remy. That fact shouldn’t wreck him to this degree. But it had. Why?
Literally . . . why?
Because I love her.
There it was. As true as his heartbeat, as clear as glass.
For several seconds, he grappled to understand himself, to take an objective look at his emotions.
Conclusion: He was completely and totally, no-going-back, no-saving-himself-now in love with Remy Reed.
How had he let this happen?
