The Redo (Winslow Brothers #4) (34)

He says my name like I’m someone special, and it makes my belly feel all fluttery inside.

I want to let out the giddiest squeal, but I hold it back, acting as laid-back and chill as I possibly can, and simply write my number on the palm of his hand.

“Thank you.” He stares down at the numbers like they mean something to him, and I stare at him like he’s the type of guy who could quickly mean something to me.

When he looks up at me from beneath his lashes, I can’t find the power to look away.

The stereo clicks off from the engine being idle for too long, and a hush fills the car. The air around us is so quiet that my ears feel like there’s a radio inside them, trying to find the right frequency.

Remy searches my eyes, and I can’t look away from him. Don’t want to look away from him.

He shifts his body closer to mine, the only thing between us the center console of his Mustang. He lifts his hand and uses his fingers to brush loose strands of hair that have fallen from my ponytail and slide them behind my ear.

His touch. It feels magical. Otherworldly.

For the briefest of moments, I flicker my eyes down to his lips and wonder again what they feel like.

“So, when I use this number…” His voice is the first thing to break the silence. “You’re going to answer my call, right?”

I nod, look at his lips again, then find myself licking my own lips.

His gaze catches sight of my tongue’s movement, and he’s back to searching my eyes again.

I wish I could see inside his head. I wish I could know what he’s thinking right now. I wish I could find out if he’s thinking about kissing me like I’m thinking about kissing him.

I’ve never felt the urge to kiss a boy before. Not like this. It feels strange and good and crazy all at the same time.

I bet he’s a good kisser. You can’t have lips like that and not be a good kisser.

His face moves closer to mine, and my heart kicks into overdrive inside my chest.

Oh my gosh, is it happening? Is he going to kiss me?

And then…his lips are on my face, pressed softly against…my cheek.

I’m almost disappointed, but he doesn’t give the emotion time to form a pit in my belly.

“I wish I could stay here with you all night like this, Maria,” he whispers into my ear. “But I know I need to let you go inside.” And he presses one more soft kiss to my cheek before moving his body back into the driver’s seat.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“And I’ll answer.”

“Good night, Maria.”

“Good night, Remy.”

Holy shit. Remington Winslow is going to call me! Tomorrow! It’s all my mind can think about as I climb out of his car. Once I make my way inside my building, I lose every ounce of cool and dance in the lobby like a fool.

Sure, I’m about to get yelled at by my mom.

And I have six weeks of healing ahead of me. Which means I’ll have to sit out cheering at some football games and competitions.

But Remington Winslow holds my number inside the palm of his hand.

If he keeps this up, soon, he’ll have your heart there too.





Saturday, August 24th

Remy

The sky is a dusky denim color from the light of the sun, the ball of fire just barely starting to make its way above the horizon, and the normally bustling city streets are filled by a few lingering delivery trucks and the scent of fresh bakery flour. Only the weary are up at this hour, preparing for the rush of the rest. They are the backbone of the community—the holders of the coffee and the start of so many’s days.

A yawn catches me off guard as I step off the curb in front of the hospital and cross the street to the other side. I pull my phone from my jeans pocket to glance at the time, only to find I’ve not only missed a message from the illustrious Cleo, but an entire text thread that further explains what my brothers were up to last night.

C: Sometimes, if we’re lucky, life gives us the kind of second chance that reminds us how right it was the first time.

If that isn’t the most vaguebook shit I’ve ever read, I don’t know what is. I know she’s trying to bait me into something here, most likely revolving around her trying to give me one of her kooky predictions, but I’m not biting.

Truthfully, I don’t even know what I would respond with if I had the energy, and I decide to leave it for now and thumb into the chat that contains more details on my brothers’ shenanigans.

Thatch: Yo, Remy, we’re all wondering where in the fuck you are? What gives, man? Truthfully, your ass better have a damn good reason that revolves around something awesome like a set of magically growing tits or else I’m gonna be pissssssed, son.

Obviously, Thatcher Kelly initiated this thread, and about ten minutes after I didn’t respond, the conversation rolled on like I wasn’t even in it.

Thatch: Seriously. Where’s your brother?

Jude: Hell if I know.

Ty: Apparently he’s decided being a little bitch is way more important tonight.

Wes: Guess we should cancel poker night and head home.

I kind of want to laugh. Surely the stress of spending all day with my sister, planting a garden that’s most likely going to die, has worn my brother-in-law out.

Thatch: We’re not canceling.