Jeremiah brought out beer and wine choices. Camille—who knew her way around Jeremiah’s kitchen—arranged snacks on a tray, then announced that the library was her favorite room in the house. They moved the food and conversation there.
Remy melted with inward delight at the taste of good-quality butter on crusty sourdough bread. Best food combination ever? In her mind, it was. Though it felt disloyal to acknowledge that anything about the mainland was superior to Islehaven, the food here definitelywassuperior to what she subsisted on there.
Anton and Camille were young-people-with-money types and certainly not as down to earth as Remy’s friends. However, they were more normal than she would’ve expected Jeremiah’s friends to be. They weren’t arrogant, nor were they wearing Izod shirts with the collars turned up, nor did they talk about golfing and trips to Belize.
As the four of them chatted, Remy glanced at Jeremiah and caught him gazing at her in a level, I-could-look-at-you-all-day-long kind of way.
Contrary to what was wise and safe, the awareness between herself and Jeremiah was growing electric. It didn't help that Jeremiah’s attention strayed back to her repeatedly. Obviously, he didn’t care that his behavior was stirring the notice of Camille, who kept looking speculatively between them.
Remy had no idea what he was thinking and feeling. She only knew that, on her end, she was attuned to every word he spoke, every movement he made. She cataloged the timbre of his voice. She noted when he resettled his position or set down his beer or ran a hand through his hair.
About an hour after they’d entered the library, they walked Anton and Camille out so the couple could relieve the babysitter. By that point, Remy was so edgy and overwhelmed by the heated vibe between herself and Jeremiah that she did not trust herself to stay. Too much emotion! Too much . . . extroverting. She needed to be alone somewhere. Which is why, once they’d said their goodbyes to Anton and Camille, she crossed to her own car.
“Where are you going?” Jeremiah asked, clearly confused. “We planned to work on the timeline.”
“Rain check on that.” She turned her key in the ignition. “Sorry. I’m tired.” Which was a lie. What she actually was? Nervous and fighting an overactive libido. She rolled down her window.
“Would caffeine help?” he asked. “I can make you coffee. Or tea.”
Caffeine would not help what ailed her. “No, thank you.”
“Remy.” He looked worried and a little . . . lost.
“I’ll return soon to help with the timeline.”
Driving away, she glanced back at him in the rearview mirror. The man with everything. And nothing. American royalty who somehow needed . . .her, of all people.
Shame twisted inside her for bailing on him.
It couldn’t be helped.
She could not be alone tonight with the Camden eyes and the Camden swagger and the Camden smile.
The following day, Jeremiah steered his Ferrari F12 east, shooting past a minivan and flying around a wide turn. He’d lost his memory, but his instincts remembered exactly how to drive a car like this one.
He hadn’t lied when he’d told Remy the BMW was the least showy car he owned. In addition to the BMW and this Ferrari, two classic cars occupied his home garage—a Mercedes gull wing and a Shelby Cobra.
He’d chosen the Ferrari this morning because he’d had an hour and a half of roundtrip driving ahead of him—to Augusta and back for an appointment with a psychologist followed by an appointment with a hypnotherapist. He was now heading home and wishing the appointments had been more successful.
Using voice controls on his phone, he connected a call to his brother.
Jude picked up right away. “Hey.”
“Hey. I met Anton yesterday. Can you tell me more about him?”
“Sure. What would you like to know?”
“His background?”
“One sec.” Rustling noises on Jude's end, then a door closing, then quiet. “Anton grew up in a working-class family in London. He and his father were both huge F1 fans. They dreamed that Anton would become a driver and both tried to make that happen.”
“But?”
“But they didn’t have the money or the sponsors to continue karting.”
“Why no sponsors?”
“Because Anton was good, but he was never great. He became a physiotherapist and went to work for Mercedes, which is based not far from London, in Brackley.”
