The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (2)

She sits down in her chair that presides over a small table covered by a black silk cloth. A set of Tarot cards is stacked in the corner, but I get the sense they’re just for show. Last time I was here, she didn’t use them on my brothers or me. And the layer of dust that sits atop them whispers a tattle about their infrequent use.

“Please, sit down,” she instructs and gestures with one hand toward the empty seat across from her. And for some shitfucked, insane reason, I do.

“It’s good to see you. I had a feeling you’d come alone this time.”

I shrug. Only a masochist would bring my brothers back to this place a second time.

“Today’s events aren’t a bachelor party.”

The last thing I needed was my brothers thinking I’ve officially lost my mind. Lord knows I’ve been an insufferable hermit ever since Charlotte decided she didn’t want to marry me…on our fucking wedding day.

A cloud passes over Cleo’s eyes, dulling the brightness of their green momentarily. “I’m sorry about that, my dear. It truly broke my heart reading those events in you.”

I shake my head and look down to the table. I don’t need this crazy chick’s pity.

“How are Jude, Ty, and Flynn?” she asks in my silence. Unstoppable sarcasm locks and loads itself on my tongue.

“Shouldn’t you already know the answer to that?” I retort. “I mean, you are the all-seeing fortune-teller, right?”

“Still a skeptic, I see.” She grins like the joke is entirely on me. “Still, you’re here.”

She’s got you there, bro.

“Go on,” she continues. “Ask me the burning questions that’ve been on your mind, my child.”

My child. Give me a break.

“Who says I have burning questions?”

“Your presence…and your broken heart.”

I don’t know why those last three words feel like a punch to the gut, but they do—a steel-toed boot straight into my abdomen.

You’d think, a year after being left at the altar, time would’ve helped heal those wounds. I mean, that is the saying, right? Time heals everything? Well, I know from experience that saying is utter bullshit. Time hasn’t done anything but make me more of a bastard.

“A man’s strength isn’t measured by his ability to hide his emotions,” she says quietly. “It’s measured by his ability to face his emotions.”

I scoff at her motivational-poster words. “What are you trying to say, Oh wise fortune-teller?”

She’s not put off by my attitude. Her face stays neutral, and her words keep flowing. “You don’t have to put on a show for me, Remington. I’m not your mom or your brothers or your sister. I know it’s in your nature to play the strong male role, and it stems from being the oldest and the years of having to pick up the pieces after your father left your family, but you don’t have to pretend to be okay when you’re not okay with me.”

My father? Pfft. He’s inconsequential. A man who doesn’t even deserve to be thought about. Frankly, a man who can leave his wife and five young kids doesn’t deserve much of anything.

“I’m not pretending shit.”

She quirks a brow, and I sigh, staring down at my hands that currently rest on the table.

Coming here was the worst idea you’ve ever had.

“I would disagree.”

I look up and meet her eyes again. “Excuse me?”

“This visit can only be a bad idea if you leave before getting the answers to the questions that brought you here.”

A chill runs up my spine, and all of a sudden, I’m afraid this woman can hear every single thought inside my head. Yes, that’s crazy, but that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.

“Your thoughts are sacred, my dear. I only listen when I need to.”

Like fuck. Right now, she’s listening to every goddamn one.

The corner of her mouth hitches, and I know instantly that she’s heard that one too. Obviously, for as long as I’m here, she’s going to be eavesdropping on every single thought I have. And even though you fucking hate it, you came here for a reason. So, get to asking before she hears something you really don’t want her to, you bastard.

“How?” I blurt out. “How did you know?”

“How did I know that you weren’t going to get married?”

“Yeah, Cleo. That would be the big question that brought me here.” I snort in annoyance. I mean, fuck, it’s pretty obvious that’s the biggest question rolling through my mind. How did a random fortune-teller know I wasn’t going to get married before I did?

“Because fate whispers her plans into the universe, and my ears are always listening.”

I want to roll my eyes at her kooky explanation.

“I know the devastation is still there,” she adds. “And I know you’re still trying to understand why. But one day, you’ll realize that marriage wasn’t meant to be. The universe has other plans for you.”

All I can do is stare at her. Is she saying I’m going to be alone forever?

I always thought I’d be the kind of man who would settle down with someone, the kind of man who would plant roots and have a family. Not some never-to-be-married, lone-wolf, fifty-year-old sleazy bachelor.