The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (32)

I start working on shifting my weight in the bed to get up and wake him, when a new nurse comes in to introduce herself and let me know she’s taking over for a couple hours because my previous nurse got to go home early.

She’s blond and bubbly and efficient, writing her name—Deb—on the whiteboard at the side of my bed and then glancing over to Remy sleeping in his chair.

She smiles conspiratorially. “The dads are always more exhausted than the moms at this point. I think it’s because they spend the entire pregnancy worrying.”

A small ping of something I can’t distinguish makes my belly flip at Remy being referred to as the “dad.” I don’t know what it’s about, but I can only imagine it’s another blip of grief for my sister and her husband.

And I can’t find it in myself to correct her.

“I can get loud if you want… Wake him up?” she offers, pulling me out of my thoughts and making me laugh.

“That’s okay. Thanks for the ride-or-die attitude, though. I appreciate it.”

She winks. “I’ll be back in a little bit. Let me know if you’ve changed your mind.”

As she leaves the room, I find myself staring at the fan of Remy’s dark lashes on both of his closed eyes. They’re as long as I remember—as though they’re extensions.

Why do men always have to have such great eyelashes? It’s completely unfair.

His face is relaxed, almost like he didn’t deliver my baby in an elevator several hours ago, and that’s when it strikes me. I think I’m getting a little too comfortable having him here.

It’s relaxed and companionable and, quite frankly, easy reassurance of why I loved him so fiercely back in the day.

But God. My life is the absolute epitome of complicated, and Remy is the least deserving person I can think of trapping in my chaotic web.

Gingerly, I climb from the hospital bed and cross the distance to his chair on the other side of the room. His chest moves up and down with ease, and his lips are parted just enough to let out the tiniest puffs of air.

He’s gorgeous, and I’m probably becoming a little too smitten all over again. Which is why I need to do this now—before I lose my nerve.

With two shaking fingers, I reach out to his shoulder and shove gently. It takes half a dozen pushes before he wakes up, but when he does, it’s with a jolt.

“What…what’s happening? Are you okay? Is Izzy okay?”

All thanks to raging postpartum hormones, I nearly burst into tears at the sweet concern in his voice.

“We’re fine. Everything’s okay.”

He sits up straight and wipes the sleep from his eyes to look me over. “Do you need me to do something?”

I soften my face with a smile I don’t really feel. “Go home. Get some sleep. In an actual bed.”

“But I thought… Maria, I can help.”

“I know, Rem. And I appreciate it. But watching you sleep sitting up in that chair is giving me a crick in my neck. Go home and rest. I’ll be okay, I promise.”

“Are you sure? I can stay. It’s no prob—”

“I’m sure, Rem.”

He considers me for a long moment and then nods. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” I say and try to mean it. “But trust me, the jury’s decided. You officially saved the day. Thank you for being there for me.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else.”

With words like that, I almost have the urge to tell him to stay forever, but I know that would be ridiculous.

“However, you should know, my departure comes with stipulations,” he says and stands to his feet.

“Stipulations?”

“Yep. Stipulations.” He smirks as he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and holds it out toward me. “I’ll head home…once you give me your phone number.”

In an instant, I feel like I’ve been transported back in time.





Twenty-Eight Years Ago…

Friday night, the first week of school, after leaving the ER…

Maria

Remy comes to a stop in front of my building, and I stare down at the brand-new, bright-pink cast on my arm. The ER doctor confirmed that my suspicions were correct; I did break my arm, but apparently I was lucky it was a clean break to only one bone. And after six weeks of walking around with this colorful monstrosity attached to my body, I’ll be as good as new.

Another oldie but goodie plays from Remy’s stereo, a song I’ve heard my mom play a thousand times while she’s making dinner. It’s one of those songs that just…I don’t know…gives you goose bumps. Pretty sure some guy named Otis sings it, and the title is “These Arms of Mine.”

I look toward the driver’s seat, where Remy sits, and I don’t know if it’s the music or the dose of pain medication the ER gave me to take the edge off, but I feel…something. Something that I don’t really understand but makes me want to lean over the console and find out what Remington Winslow’s lips feel like against mine.

But that’s crazy, right? That would be a crazy thing to do. Especially for a girl who has only kissed one boy in her entire life, and it was just a small, little peck of nothing exciting.

“You think your mom is going to be mad?” Remy asks, and I’m thankful for the distraction. Goodness knows, my mind wasn’t heading anywhere good.