“Right now, it looks like what we’re doing,” Remy says. “Spending time together. Eating together. If you want more from us, you initiate it. We will only go as far as holding hands unless you ask for more.”
He pauses, taking in her uncertain expression.
“We can work through it as we go,” he adds. “As long as we talk about it. Even when it’s uncomfortable. It should get easier.”
“I would like for us to be able to stay with you,” I say.
Remy gives me a look that suggests I’m not saying this correctly. He’s wrong. I’m saying it exactly right.
“At the house,” I continue. “Separate rooms. A different floor, if you want.”
I organize the rest before speaking. “It would allow us to work together on the music. That matters. It would also improve your security.”
I pause. Remy snorts.
“Priorities,” he mutters.
Tianna’s mouth curves into a faint smile, so I continue.
“It would also help you become accustomed to us. Reduce uncertainty. We could help with the Notes. And it would allow us to move out of the hotel.”
She bites her lip, considering. When she answers, her voice is firm.
“No.”
Chapter eighty-one
Christianna
The answer spills out, and even I’m surprised by it.
“No.”
I’m not the only one startled by the abruptness of my answer, but I’m proud I can say it. I tilt my head back and laugh. I’m regaining myself. Better than that, these men understand that I need to.
When I look at them, Remy is bemused and Erik is assessing. Of course he is.
“I need to explain, I think.”
I take both of their free hands and guide us forward as the Notes drift toward the next hedge.
Erik’s grip is firm. Remy laces his fingers through mine and gives a gentle squeeze.
“It’s good to hear you laugh like that again,” Remy says. “Free. Hearing it brings me back to memories of you joyful, singing.”
I smile, genuinely. “Knowing I can make my own decisions and that you will respect them is liberating. I closed myself offfrom the world after Angel. Talking about her, even thinking about her, used to ignite so much rage that I avoided it altogether.”
The dogs pull hard all at once. They must have caught the scent of a squirrel, their hind legs digging in as they jerk the men forward. They chuff and strain, dragging us straight toward a dense hedge along the perimeter wall of the property.
They’re growling low in their throats. Remy steps in front of me, presses his leash into Erik’s hand, and shoves the hedge aside to see what they’re growling at.
“Don’t let them bite me, Jesus, get them away from me,” a voice shouts from inside the hedge. Branches crash as someone stumbles backward.
Remy reaches in and hauls a thin man out by the arm. He’s mid twenties maybe, sweat-darkened hair plastered to his forehead, phone already in his hand, the camera light glaring.
“Hey. Hey. I’m recording,” he says, breathless, angling the lens toward Remy. “This is public property. You can’t manhandle me.”
Treble snarls, low in the back of his throat. Bass steps forward, placing himself squarely between me and the man, hackles raised, head lowered.
