The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (100)

But Remy’s warm hand and smile are like gifts from heaven above, making my chest feel full and free at the same time. I’m not about to let myself fuck that up right now. No way.

When we sit down at the table, I open my menu dutifully, ready to pick out my meal and keep my mouth shut like a good little girl.

Remy chats amiably with both me and the baby, and I smile and nod back when I can manage.

But for as much as I stare at the menu and the man and the baby and try to remind myself that only a twisted individual would jeopardize this moment with thoughts, all I can see is the image of Remy on top of me, his cock between my legs and my heart beating out of my chest. Even while the waiter comes to take our order—and after—all I can see is a physically, intimately connected Remy and me.

I mean, the man is hot. The sex was hot. I don’t have a clue on earth how I’m going to continue on like nothing ever happened. I just wish that didn’t seem like the only option here.

Mouth with a mind of its own, I blurt. Just word vomit all over the table and Remy and every carefully placed plan I’ve just come up with. He’s even in the middle of talking about something else entirely, but my nerves don’t care. They can’t wait.

“Maybe we can—”

“Maybe we should talk about the fact that we had sex last night.”

Remy instantly jumps from his position and reaches forward to cover Izzy’s ears. “Ixnay on the ex-say. There’s a baby here.”

I roll my eyes. “You know she can’t understand you, right? She has no idea what sex means. She doesn’t even really know what words mean, Rem.”

“Actually, there are several studies on the psychology of influence at an early age and promiscuity. They can be directly tied to low self-worth and impulsivity.”

“Influence of having a conversation in front of a baby can do all that? Where on earth did you hear that?”

“A very reputable source.”

I crook an eyebrow, and he chuckles.

“Okay, it was Lexi. But I’m telling you, if that kid said it, it’s true.”

“I just feel like we need to talk about it,” I state without wavering. “And while I know Lexi is brilliant beyond her years, Izzy isn’t going to understand a single word that’s being said right now. Like, not at all.” I pointedly nod down at the still-sleeping baby attached to his chest.

But he just takes it all in stride. Easy peasy, relaxed as can be. “Don’t worry, we’ll talk about it.”

“We will?”

“Definitely.”

“Remy—”

“Ri, I promise you, we’ll talk about it. I would love to talk about it, in fact. There are so many things I could discuss in relation to this topic. But let’s do it later, okay? Right now, let’s just have dinner.”

“I just don’t want things to be—”

“They’re not,” he cuts me off to comfort.

I shake my head. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I can think of three options, and all of them have the same answer. We will talk later. Hash out the game footage. Really go through the whole thing.”

My head jerks back. “Whoa, whoa, I’m not saying I want to—”

“Oh, we’re going to,” he promises lightly. “We’re going to get into it. Just not here, you know?”

I sigh and then, finally, nod my agreement. He’s right, after all. It’s not like I’d feel comfortable having the kind of conversation we really need to have smack-dab in the middle of a busy Manhattan restaurant.

“Now, tell me how your showings went today,” he says, and it’s the opening that’s needed to move our conversation away from the s-e-x subject.

I tell him about Conrad Blakely, even the whole story about Claudia telling him I had diarrhea last night, and by the time our food comes to the table, we’re back to our usual fun banter that’s been there since the very beginning of when Remy and Maria were even a thing.

But just before I’m about to cut into my chicken, I can’t help but notice that Remy’s rice looks an awful lot like mashed potatoes. For some reason, though, Remy doesn’t say anything, smiling down at his plate instead and then turning to look at Izzy at his chest.

“Um, excuse me, sorry,” I say to get the waiter’s attention as he moves to head back toward the kitchen. “I don’t want to be a bother, but his mashed potatoes were supposed to be rice.”

The busy waiter glances back at Remy’s plate and seemingly sees it for the first time. I’m sure he’s dead on his feet.

“Oh no,” he agrees then. “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

I shake my head. “No, don’t apologize! We can see you’re slammed. But if you don’t mind switching it out when you get a chance, we’d really appreciate it.”

“Of course!” he says, jumping forward and scooping up Remy’s plate. “I’ll be right back with it.” I make a mental note to give him a bigger tip, just to make up for him having to run back and forth an extra time.

But when he steps away with the plate, Remy is looking at me with an intensity I can’t exactly place. “What? What is it?”

“You didn’t have to do that. I would have eaten the potatoes.”