Unlike Sober Remi, Drunk Remi let him take care of her. Besides, there was no way he was letting anyone else see her home. He didn’t trust anyone else to pour her into bed.

He ducked into the office to grab his gear. When he came back out, she had wandered over to a table of two couples on their monthly date night. Apparently they were discussing the craziest things they’d ever done and whether or not they’d do them again. A topic no doubt broached by Remi.

It was yet another thing he appreciated about her. She abhorred small talk. If she walked up to a stranger at a party, she was more likely to ask them about the complexities of their relationship with a parent or what had been the best thing to happen to them that week. They’d had a lot of those conversations in his first year or two on the island.

“Come on, Remi,” he said, steering her back to the bar. “Time to go.”

She leaned way back to look up at him and then grinned. “Hi, Brick,” she said in a singsong voice.

“Hi.”

“You’re so tall,” she said earnestly.

“You’re very observant,” he said dryly, stuffing her into her coat and zipping it up to her chin.

“It’s one of my favorite things about you. Do you want to know what the other ones are?” she asked.

“No.”

He searched her pockets and found only one glove. Not a surprise. He put his own gloves over her tiny hands and led her out the back.

“Where are we going? Are we going to go do something crazy?” she asked, bouncing on her toes and looking hopeful. Drunk Remi was also Do Something Crazy Remi, which was exactly why no one else was going to get the chance to walk her home.

“Sure. But first we’re going to stop by your place.”

“Okay. And then we’re going on an adventure, right?” she clarified, her green eyes wide and hopeful.

“Yep.” She’d be ready to pass out by the time they got to the cottage. He took her hand and tugged her with him down the sidewalk. It was late, and fat flakes of snow drifted lazily toward the earth.

“Have we done this before?” she asked. “This feels vaguely familiar.”

He’d walked Drunk Remi home on more than a few occasions. Especially in her early twenties when the wild child in flowing sundresses couldn’t help but attract freaking day-tripping fudgies—fudge-shopping tourists—and vacationers with dicks. Men fell for her on sight when she was sober. And when she was half in the bag, the woman was fucking irresistible.

“Brick, your hand is going to get cold,” she said, holding up his bare hand.

“I’ll survive,” he promised her.

“Here. I’ll keep it warm for you,” she said, stuffing his hand wrapped in her own into his coat pocket. “If you weren’t you and I wasn’t me, this would be pretty romantic.”

“Do you wish I wasn’t me?” he asked before catching himself.