Remi sighs, relaxing her grip even though the hand stays. I pick up my phone to turn on the light, and my eyes land on hers.

“Come here often?”

She fights a smile. “I visit when I can.”

Returning my phone to the ledge, I set it so the light shines at the ceiling. Shadows cast sharp and harsh around us, only parts of her fully illuminated. A certain part gains my attention. My eyes lower as she readjusts her skirt to better cover her ass. Failing miserably. A pleading look comes my way, so I bend my other knee more, letting both fall open to rest on the sides of the tub. It allows her to find an angle that almost ruins my view, her legs folding before she gives up.

“I’ve seen a lot more of you than this,” I remind her.

Her cheeks pink again, and she avoids my gaze.

“Why are you hiding, anyway?” She sets her camera between my legs in front of hers, and I pick it right up. My turn to avoid. I am hiding. Colt’s jab about my celibacy streak holds more truth than I care to admit to myself, let alone her. She infiltrated before, and here I am again—knowing the damage she causes, yet I still can’t stop.

I run my fingers over the matte black finish of her camera’s body and down the navy shoulder strap she rarely uses.

“I can leave,” she says when I don’t answer her. “They’ve probably found the others by now. So, if you want to be alone—” She cuts off when I power on her camera, and I smirk at the apprehension creeping into her eyes. “What are you doing?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Fucking up your settings.”

She lunges, and I jerk it out of her reach.

“Nope. Mine.”

On a huff, she returns to her side of the tub, settled farther back on the porcelain, and the soles of her boots press against my ankle. I watch her through the viewfinder, studying all of her through the screen. Like in the dark, it transforms her into my Remi. Remi Saint. The broken girl who wrecked my world in the best way possible. Or it’s the alcohol.

She crosses her arms, quite the glare aimed at me. Again, she asks, “What are you doing?”

I zoom in on her face, and her eyes shift from me to the lens’ movement. “Observing my subject in a foreign habitat.”

“You’re a filmmaker now?” She cocks her head.

“Documentarian,” I correct. “Up-and-coming. Turns out, there’s no money in music.”

She finally smiles all the way, shaking her head when she bites down on her lower lip. I move the camera over her, still zoomed to only show me the pieces. Auburn locks and a heated cheek. A mossy iris framed by fluttering lashes. Slender neck, partially in shadow.