8. Now?

CHAPTER8

Now?

Remy

The next night at 5:55, Remy pulled into the driveway of his own house (or he still thought of it that way) not feeling like he had the many other times he’d done it over the last three years.

That being lowkey rage that he’d have to walk up to and hit the doorbell on the door to a home he’d paid the mortgage on for fifteen years.

It was something else that was uglier and harder to take.

He felt miserable.

Not about what was to come.

With that, he had a game plan. Yesterday, he’d instigated it and today he would bring it forward.

No, that miserable feeling was about the fact it was all on him that he had to walk up to that damned door and ring the bell because what was beyond—especially one particular thing that was by far the most important—wasn’t his anymore.

The catering van was at the curb, and he’d come hungry because Lucie had been Wyn’s (more aptly, Noel’s) favorite caterer for four years, so he knew what was in store.

And he ignored the wrench in his gut when he rang the doorbell, including the familiarity of the feel of it, something he’d been able to ignore by covering it with anger about whatever he’d concocted to come get up in Wyn’s shit about.

He still had the key (she’d never asked for it back, he’d never offered). After he’d walked out three years ago, he’d also never used it, even if he’d invented ways to be extremely pissed off at her and had come over to share that.

He loved every being in that home (save Lucie, but he loved her food).

He was still glad it was Wyn who answered the door.

She did it differently, not the way she’d done it since he’d left.

This time, she appeared flustered.

He’d get why when she said to her feet, “For something like this, Remy, please, don’t ring the bell. Just come in.”

Which meant maybe she wasn’t big on him ringing the bell on the door to his own home either.

“Hey, and thanks,” he murmured, moving in.

Her eyes skittered through his and she said, “The kids are in the kitchen.”

He didn’t go into the kitchen. He waited while she closed the door.

Then he told her the truth, but he did it having a purpose.

“You look good.”

Her gaze finally came to his face. “Well…uh,” she tucked hair behind her ear, and Jesus.

Jesus.

He forgot how fucking cute she was when she was uncertain of her footing with a man she was attracted to.

She was the single worst flirt he’d ever encountered.

It was the most effective flirting he’d ever experienced.

“Thanks,” she finished.

“I brought over Dom. Were you intending not to let your underage son drink it at his own truth and bravery celebration?” he teased.

She scrunched her face (fuck, he forgot how much he liked that too) and pushed out, “Don’t be an ass.”

He smiled at her.

She then swanned into the kitchen, and he watched her ass as she did it.

He really wanted to believe her outfit of white, wide-legged, ribbed knit pants with a matching top that had short sleeves and buttoned to a vee-neck (both the pants and the top hugging areas of her body he’d spent years worshiping) was for him. But he knew the last time she’d worn true knockabout clothes was the day they’d painted Sabre’s nursery together in their first house.

Even when the kids were little, she turned herself out, and it was not lost on him the job he left her to at home when he went to work was tough, carried incredible responsibility, as well as a huge workload.

That, he’d figure out later, was never for him.

It was the way she was. It was who she was. And before the term “self-care” became the lingo, it was what she carved time out of her day, every day, to do for herself.

Except for a rough patch that lasted about eight months when Yves was newborn and the other two were under five, Remy was making his name, so he was also working longer hours and things got hectic for her, that had never changed.

What she was wearing right then was as casual as it came.

Unless she was nude.

“Your father has arrived,” she announced grandly as she hit the kitchen.

“Daddy!” Manon cried and then she was on him.

And since his daughter heard the doorbell, knew it was him, and she had never in her life hesitated rushing him, shouting his name, and falling on him, he gave her a hug, murmured in her ear, but looked at his two boys who were also in the room.

Both darted their attention back and forth between him and their mom.

They’d left her to get the door for their own reasons, which Remy was seeing aligned with his.

Good to have additional evidence they hadn’t raised idiots.

He felt his lips tip up and Manon jumped back from him.

He looked down at her, forgetting for a second he had a number of motives for why he’d arranged them all to be there, and since he’d arranged it, he’d added one more.

Her mother was the most gorgeous woman Remy had ever seen.

But damn, did they make a beautiful girl.

“Are you going to pop the cork?” she asked. “I’m dying.”

“I don’t know, precious, you’re underage. We’ll have to ask your mom.”

She blinked in confusion.

Yves burst out laughing.

“Stop being difficult, Remy,” Wyn demanded with unveiled exasperation, having put the whole length of the massive, very long, not as wide but still wide, island between them.

“Hey, Lucie,” he greeted the woman who was shifting this way and that on the island, enough food there was no way in hell the five of them would get anywhere near going through it all.

God, he missed Noel.

And that amount of food was all Noel.

Remy’s dad came from wealth.

His mom came from wealth, even if, by the time it got to her, it was mostly gone.

Remy’s dad worked far more hours than he spent with his wife or son to make more wealth.

And considering the fact both of them had made a deal with the devil and drove a hard bargain seeing as the devil met them each in turn and realized he’d met his match, they were unlikely to die until Remy had long since kicked it.

But once they did, they were going to make his kids very rich.

Wyn, on the other hand, had grown up on a small farm.

Her dad worked the land but also worked as a janitor in an automotive parts factory. Her mom worked reception for the local dentist. And still, with four kids, they barely made ends meet.

They were also the kindest, gentlest, most loving human beings Remy had ever met (outside their daughter), and when they both passed, Remy grieved twice, losing them and having to experience the agony of watching Wyn do it.

But near on their whole lives, they were two steps up from dirt poor.

Wyn had never washed that taste from her mouth. Not sipping wine on the Seine. Not declaring ouzo disgusting on Crete (the moment he discovered she hated licorice and all things aniseed).

When he met her, he’d been fucking around going back to school to get his architect’s degree, trying to prove a point to his father, at the same time knowing eventually he’d give up as his father suspected he would and goaded him about incessantly. Then he’d be swallowed by his family’s company.

It was meeting Wyn that had lit the fire in his belly to make something of himself to show her, but also show his dad.

To follow through with something.

Something important.

But most of all, to build a life with his hands, his work, his ideas, all things his. A life he would give to her where she could stop carefully unfolding the paper around flour packets so she could be certain to save that half a teaspoon that got caught in the folds.

He’d never, not once, mistaken he was who he was because of Wyn, and no small part of that was when they made their family and she let him work. She’d given him time and space to test the lengths of his ambition, and best them, then reset them, while she took on the work of their home and their kids.

In return, they both had built a life where she didn’t have to worry about the flour packets.

But he’d failed in his mission to eradicate her innate need to do so.

“Hey, Remy,” Lucie replied.

“Looks fantastic,” he told her.

She shot him a smile then turned to Wyn. “I’m taking off. We’re recycling, yes?”

Wyn nodded. “But do you want to stay for a glass of champagne?”

“I’d love to, but it’s a banner Sunday. I have another job on the go. I have to check on them.”

“Oh!” Wyn chirped. “My God. Sorry. Okay. Thank you for taking us on.”

“I will never say no to you,” Lucie replied.

Remy knew why she wouldn’t.

She’d been a woman with a dream and a food truck.

Noel had been to that food truck. And since that man could make friends with a gnat, he’d made friends with Lucie and found out catering was where she wanted to go. So, when they’d had the work, he’d suggested her for the job. Wyn had taken a chance. And most of Phoenix and Scottsdale’s elite had eaten her food.

And now she had more food trucks and a successful catering business.

Lucie said goodbye to them all and they all returned it with Sabre saying, “I’ll drop those trays by your kitchens before going down to Tucson in the morning, Lucie.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Lucie replied.

“Won’t be a problem.”

“You’re the best.”

He smiled his cool-guy smile and Lucie took off.

Fortunately, she was halfway down the walk (he could see through the window over the sink, which had a view to the front yard), when Manon chanted, “You like her, you like her, you so, so like Lucie.”

“Ef off, you dork,” Sabre growled.

Remy was at the wine fridge, and he could growl too.

“Son.”

“I didn’t say the full word, Dad. And she’s being a pill.”

Remy got out the Dom Perignon and said, “Manon.”

“All right, Dad,” she muttered, then stuck her tongue out at her big brother.

He sighed.

Wyn came out from behind her fortress of the length of the island to move close enough to Remy to slide the coupé glasses toward him.

No flutes for Wyn.

Coupé glasses held far less liquid, but they were far more chic. He didn’t think she even owned a flute.

And that wasn’t about appearances.

That was about aesthetics.

That was something they had in common.

Not a detail of their home did they fight about.

She had perfect style.

And he had perfect design sense.

It was a perfect match.

He popped the cork.

“Yippee!” Manon yelled.

He grinned and grinned bigger when he saw Wyn smiling.

He poured glasses and the kids approached the island as Wyn passed them out.

Ballsier than any male he’d ever met, it was not a surprise when Sabre got there first with the toast.

Glass raised, he said, “Here’s to courage and truth and all that jazz, and for essentially existing, Yves giving us an excuse to eat crab cakes!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Manon cried.

Remy would too.

They all raised their glasses and drank.

He’d have to wait until he managed to maneuver the kids being gone and him still there before he got into one of the things he’d engineered this celebration for.

But now, since they’d just done the important part—making sure Yves knew he had their unconditional love and support—Remy could get to the add-on.

“Thought I’d see Theo here,” he said, then smiled into his glass as Yves choked.

“Oh man,” Manon mumbled.

Sabre grunted.

Yeah, the kids knew.

They were close. Now, and they always had been.

Thick as thieves.

All their lives.

He’d never had that, until Wyn gave it to him.

Then he had it every day.

Until he walked out.

He quit smiling.

“Theo?” Wyn queried.

“You know?” Yves asked, his eyes glued to his dad.

“I didn’t until yesterday because I didn’t know your orientation until this week. Now that I know, you men are very bad at hiding it. And how about until your old man gets used to things with you and Theo, we have a little less patting on the ass?”

Manon burst out laughing and Sabre’s chest moved with the same, but silently.

Yves was bright red.

“What are you all talking about?” Wyn asked.

“I have a boyfriend, Mom,” Yves said.

Her head jerked and her thick blonde hair swayed around her shoulders.

“Theo…from the squad?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Yves answered, sounding strangled.

“Oh my,” she whispered, then recovered. “Well, I suppose we don’t have to worry about anyone confronting you with bigotry. He’s, what? Six ten and five hundred pounds of solid muscle? And you’re no slouch. You’d have to have a death wish to try anything with either one of you.”

Yves relaxed and chuckled. “He’s six five, Mom. And he’s only about forty pounds bigger than me.”

“He’s also older than you,” she noted. “He’s in college.”

“He’s one year and two months older than me. He’s a freshman in college, I’m a senior in high school. He’s nineteen. I’ll be eighteen in a few months. It isn’t a big deal.”

“One year and two whole months,” she murmured, a light in her eye.

She was playing.

She was pleased.

She was maybe even relieved she knew the kid and knew he was a good kid.

Of course, she was also a woman, so she saw her good-looking son and knew he wasn’t taking whatever he could get, but instead, he’d scored a good guy who was also good-looking.

Which meant she wasn’t a man, so she wasn’t thinking any further than that.

And Remy wasn’t going there.

He’d already had to deal with it in his face when he’d come home from his office to grab something he’d forgotten, saw Sabre was up from school, and walked in on him giving a girl a ride in his bed.

Now, until he had grandchildren, and therefore the bonus of such activities to spoil, he wasn’t thinking about it again with any of them.

“He’s on standby to come over,” Yves said.

“On standby?” Remy asked.

Yves nodded to him. “I was going to tell you about him and ask if he could come over so you could meet him. And he’s waiting for my call, or, um, text if you’re not ready.”

“I coach him, son. I spent two hours with the guy yesterday.”

“Well, you know, as my…uh…”

“Boyfriend?” Wyn provided.

Yves smiled at his mom. “Yeah, that.”

She glanced at Sabre, who was shoving a crab cake in his mouth, then she said, “By all means, phone him with urgency before Sabre eats all the food and we look ungracious due to the fact we’ve asked him to a meet the parents and yet we can’t offer refreshments when he arrives. But instead, he’ll be mocked by a variety of catering trays with nothing but crab dust inside.”

That was when Remy laughed.

“I knew you’d say yes, and me and Yves double date, so I also know how much that guy puts away. I’m getting my fill before he gets here,” Sabre stated with his mouth full.

“You double date?” Wyn asked.

Sabre shrugged…and shoved another crab cake in his mouth.

“How long have you and Theo been together?” she asked Yves.

“We hoo…um, started dating in April,” Yves answered.

Wyn nodded to her youngest, wisely not making an issue of the fact that he’d hidden a boyfriend for six months. Yves had his reasons, and they didn’t need to put him on the spot to explain them.

He’d come out, and a few days later, shared about the boyfriend.

All good.

Also, a reminder to Remy of something else about his wife.

With the way he’d grown up, he’d had no clue how to be a parent.

She did because she’d had excellent teachers.

From the beginning, they hadn’t fought about it, and he hadn’t fumbled. He knew the foundation she was standing on with her parenting, so he’d watched and taken her cues.

He couldn’t say they’d never disagreed on parental decisions, case in point, him feeling with his sons he should demystify booze (however, he had not missed she’d done the same with their daughter, but since he agreed, he didn’t call her on it) so it wouldn’t seem the illicit thrill other kids thought it was.

But on the important things, like this, they were always rock solid.

She looked to her oldest.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked Sabre suspiciously.

Sabre shook his head and swallowed more food. “No, and I’m not hard to look at, but I’ll sure be able to tell how into me she is when we sit down and eat with two Adidas models.” He turned to Yves who was shoving his phone in his jeans, after no doubt texting Theo. “Which, by the way, I’m batting zero, man.”

“Let me get this straight…” Wyn started.

Oh shit.

“…you test your dates by using your brother and his boyfriend?” she finished.

“Babe,” Remy murmured.

“Yeah. And it’s good I do because they all fail,” Sabre said to his mother.

She looked up at Remy and her hazel eyes flashed more green than brown, and he absolutely knew what that meant.

When she wasn’t angry, they were an equal mix of both.

When she was a little angry, they were an equal mix of both.

When she was pissed, out came the green.

“You get to handle this one,” she ordered.

“Relax,” he replied. “It’s actually kind of ingenious.”

Those eyes flashed again as they widened.

Jesus, he fucking longed to kiss her.

He’d longed for nothing in his life.

Not parents who loved him, not even after getting hers and knowing how much he’d been missing.

Not the end of their dry spell, as decreed by Wyn, that they couldn’t have sex for one month prior to their wedding, “So on our wedding night, it’ll be special.”

Before that (and after, honest as shit, he didn’t know how either of them were able to walk enough to get on a plane after their honeymoon), they’d fucked like rabbits, and she was phenomenal.

And she’d been so happy and excited in the run up to their wedding, she shone like a goddamn sunbeam.

It had been torture.

But he longed to kiss her right then.

In the kitchen they’d renovated, next to an island he’d eaten her out on countless times and fucked her on countless more.

Christ, what had he done?

“Remy?” she whispered.

“Right here, baby,” he whispered back, tasting acid in his mouth and feeling it drip down his throat into his gut.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Mm-hmm, fine. Good,” he muttered.

She studied him a second and he noticed the green was gone.

Now, her eyes were more brown than green.

He knew what that meant too.

She was worried.

But she muttered back an unconvincing, “Okay.”

She turned to the island.

Remy drank half a coupé glass of champagne before he did the same, and it wasn’t near enough to wash that acid away, and that had nothing to do with how much liquid a coupé glass held.

But when he took them in, he caught their kids in various versions of pretending they weren’t watching every move and listening to every word their parents said with the intensity of the world’s highest-powered microscope.

And that was when he thought…shit.

He better not fuck this up.

No.

He’d already fucked this up.

And Christ.

Now?

He simply could not fuck this up.