It worried him.

“Can you paint? I mean with your arm in the cast,” he asked, suddenly needing to break the silence.

She opened her mouth, and a short sigh drifted out. “I haven’t really tried,” she admitted, not looking directly at him.

Again there was no elaboration. No chipper announcement of what art form she’d be tackling until she could get back to painting. No silver lining or funny anecdote.

“When does the cast come off?”

“Four to six weeks.”

“Maybe you can finger paint till then?” he suggested.

This time she did look at him, and he was relieved to see a little spark in those green eyes. “Maybe,” she mused.

“I can clear out most of the outdoor equipment to give you more space,” he said when she got quiet again.

What. The. Fuck? Christ, five seconds with the woman and all his carefully made plans tumbled like a house of cards.

They would both be better off with as much distance as possible between them. But he was worried about her, and until he figured out what was wrong and how to fix it, he’d have to suck it up and deal with the proximity.

“You don’t have to do that. I just need a little corner with good light. Besides, this is just temporary until I figure out…some things.”

“Are you okay?” Sleep-deprived Brick had the self-control of a four-year-old. He wanted to kick himself for asking the question. He wanted to keep asking questions. To keep pushing until he had real answers. Something was wrong, and he didn’t like it.

Why wasn’t she in any accident reports? What had caused her asthma attack? Why had she suddenly materialized on Mackinac? Why did her lights stay on all night? Why was she lying?

Things weren’t adding up, and he was starting to get the feeling that Remi was in trouble. And if there was anything more irresistible than Happy, Playful Remi, it was In Trouble Remi.

Her gaze skated away from him. “Sure. I’m fine.” She said it with a little, careless shrug and then turned to look out one of the windows.

It was the opposite of convincing. She could look anyone in the world in the eye and lie to their face. Except him.

“Would you tell…anyone if you were in trouble?” Would she tell him?

He watched her cover up the fatigue, the worry with a facade of bravado. Her smile, while still a punch to the gut, didn’t come close to her eyes. “Now, when did you go and get a big imagination, Brick Callan? Everything is fine. I’m fine.”

Remington Ford had never once in her entire life been fine. She’d been wonderful. She’d been devastated. She’d been on top of the world. She’d been shattered. But never something as flat or normal as fine.

If he was going to find out what the hell kind of trouble she’d gotten herself into and fix it, he was going to have to keep her close. Or he could just step back and let her deal with it herself.