“Okay.” Though Jeremiah absolutely did have a crush on Remy.
Seconds later, the brothers yelled, “Fumble!” in unison.
Jude stuck around long enough to watch the recovering team connect a thirty-yard pass to the end zone, then pushed to his feet. “I’m taking off.”
Jeremiah moved to stand.
“Don’t get up.”
“I’m getting up.”
“Broken ribs.”
“Which are improving.” Jeremiah extended his hand, and they shook.
“Thank you,” Jeremiah said.
“You’re welcome. If there’s anything else I can do, call me.”
Jeremiah watched Jude go. Remy had been correct when she’d said that Jude had been generous to dedicate his weekend to helping Jeremiah reclaim his life.
Gaining access to the computer in his office had been the easiest part—they’d unlocked that with Jeremiah’s fingerprint so hadn’t needed a code. Emails had revealed which bank he used. They’d driven to the local branch and validated his identity there. Bank statements showed which credit cards he carried. They called each credit card company, cancelled the old cards, and requested new. They located his phone backup on the cloud, bought a new phone, then downloaded the backup. They requested a new driver’s license online. Incoming email from business associates had enabled Jeremiah to send them all an outgoing email, letting them know he was extending his vacation for personal reasons.
This morning, he and Jude had gone through his list of phone contacts. Jude knew who more than half of them were. For those, Jeremiah added the details Jude supplied to each contact’s information. Things like,Aunt on Fiona’s side. Friend from my driving days.
Jeremiah’s phone chimed to signal a text. He checked it, hoping it was from Remy. It wasn’t. It was from someone named Gigi Kaminski. Jude hadn’t been familiar with Gigi. Jeremiah’s plan for the people Jude wasn’t familiar with: ignore.
He tossed his phone to the side and massaged his temples.
Remy wasn’t warming up to the idea of simply hanging out with him, so he needed to change his strategy. She’d agreed to stay until he was settled and doing fine on his own. Which meant he needed to give her a reason to think he wasn’t settled, wasn’t fine on his own, and required her help. That’s what had done the trick on Islehaven and that’s what might do the trick here on the mainland.
About an hour before sunset the following evening, Remy carried trash bag number eight thousand to the driveway beside Wendell’s house. She’d deposited the first few bags in the city trash bins. Quickly filling those, she’d been depositing subsequent bags near the bins. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to park her rental car in the driveway, so she spent time dragging several out of the way.
As she skirted the front corner of the house en route back to the door, she saw that a man was standing, hands in his pockets, on the front stoop. He was facing her and staring straight at her.
She jerked to a halt. Jeremiah.
Aclangwent through her. His eyes, though the coolest shade of green, blazed hot.
He wasn’t the same. The scruff on his cheeks was gone, as were the familiar clothing items he’d worn and reworn on Islehaven. Until now she hadn’t realized just how much those things had combined with his weakened physical state to make him seem . . . approachable. Human?
He was a self-controlled man but today he looked more in control of himself than ever. The smooth lines of his cheeks and jaw were unforgivingly handsome. He’d dressed in a simple dusky blue sweater, jeans that fit him like a dream, European-looking sneakers. Every item gave off an expensive vibe.
“How’d you find this place?” she asked.
“I looked up Wendell Reeves’s address on Whitepages.com.”
She raised a fist and shook it.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“I’m shaking my fist at Whitepages.com.”
He chuckled, then followed her inside.
Wendell was sullenly going through one of the cardboard boxes left over from his Islehaven house.
Jeremiah introduced himself.
