She waved a hand. “We can work that out on the way to the dock.”
“Now.” He added her name in an affectionate tone. “Leigh.”
She sighed. Once he’d opened a money-paying app on his phone, she reluctantly provided her username.
“Is it okay with you if I add at least one more zero to this number?” he asked.
“No! If you think I’m going to take more than I’m owed from a celestial being, you’re crazy.”
He held the door for her, then followed her toward her car.
The first time he’d left Islehaven he’d been forced to do so by a chest infection. His health was excellent now. Yet his chest was even heavier and more painful than it had been the last time.
Not because of illness. Because of something harder to cure.
Sorrow.
Remy never wanted to see or hear or think about Jeremiah Camden.
Ever,everagain.
Since their fight, she’d thrown herself into her art. She’d completed her goblet project, notified her sister that it was ready for sale, then pulled out a block of South American snakewood she’d had on hand for years. She often kept blocks for long periods of time, getting to know them and pondering them until inspiration struck.
This time, she didn’t have the luxury of waiting for inspiration nor the luxury of the serene mind required to imagine worlds and stories. She’d eyeballed the piece for sixty seconds, pulled on her goggles, and heedlessly started carving. Bark flew. Her muscles complained. Instincts overtook her. And dark satisfaction rose.
Each time her mind tried to replay the things Jeremiah had said and the way he’d looked saying them—injured and honest and brutally appealing—she icily cut off the memories. Every thought of Jeremiah, she blocked. It was the mental equivalent of the physical blocking she’d learned to do in all those self-defense classes. Block. Block. Block.
She’d given up eating at her regimented times, walking, and yoga. All her time was spent working, power-watchingMerlin, and sleeping. She did ensure that she was consuming the proper amount of water, because one must havesomestandards and dehydration was considerably below her standards.
Her piece was ugly in a raw, powerful way. She was going to finish it in record time, and she took savage pleasure in her productivity.
Hedid not have the power to rob her of her effectiveness.
She didn’t need anyone. She loved her life here all alone. This was the perfect, perfect place for her. She’d chosen it. She was so very strong.
All was well.
Or . . . allwouldbe well if not for the ominous and niggling suspicion at the back of her mind. She kept powering past it and refusing to confront it.
But the suspicion was this . . . .
Something deep, deep within her was drastically wrong.
ChapterTwenty-Four
The following day, midmorning, Jude eyed his brother as Jeremiah made his way toward him through the crowd at Java Junkie. “You look terrible,” Jude said.
“And you look polished. Every hair in place.”
Regardless of what he looked like on the outside, Jude knew he wasn’t as polished on the inside as usual. He’d started tossing and turning at night over the upcoming op surrounding Rhapsodie perfume.
No one had needed to teach him how to be responsible. That’s who he was.Responsible. That’s what flowed through his bloodstream. The op remained in its preparation phase, he’d yet to meet Gemma Clare, and already he was feeling the weight of ensuring that a legendary perfume recipe, held close for centuries, did not fall into the wrong hands. Soon, the full pressure of that responsibility would rest entirely on him.
Jeremiah settled into the chair across the table. He hadn’t shaved and his hair made Jude think he’d shaken it out wet and run his hands through it once. It hadn’t been trimmed in a while, so it curled at the base of his neck. His skin was too pale, his irises too bright. The hollows below his cheekbones were deeper than they should have been.
“Remy broke up with you,” Jude deduced based on the evidence.
“It’s temporary.”
