“It’s none of your business.” It wasn’t. She wouldn’t make it his. If she couldn’t protect Camille, she could at least protect him and the only way she was going to be able to accomplish that was by pissing him off.

“I don’t know why you think you can just stick your nose into other people’s business and then demand they explain their lives to you,” she huffed, working herself up into a temper.

“I’m a cop and a bartender—it’s what I do.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a criminal or a patron. So back off.”

“Where’s your inhaler?” he demanded crisply.

“What?”

“You’re starting to wheeze.”

She didn’t have to work herself up now, she was actually there. For the first time in weeks, she felt strong, not weak.

He blew out a breath. Standing there, hands on hips, he looked formidable. And safe. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t his problem. He’d lost the opportunity to make her his problem a long time ago.

“Sit,” he ordered.

Stubbornly, she remained standing until he gave an aggrieved groan and took a seat on the couch. “Happy?”

“Not until you tell me why the hell you decided it was imperative that you go digging into my business,” she shot back.

His hands closed over his knees, and then he slid his palms up his thighs. “Because you’re fucking scared, Remi. And the girl I know isn’t afraid of anything. So when you show up here, unannounced, with some bullshit story and a broken arm, and you can’t sleep with the lights off, you’re fucking right, I did some digging. I know you were hospitalized for an asthma attack, not injuries sustained in an accident. You didn’t mention that to your parents when they asked.”

Suddenly weary, she stalked to the opposite end of the couch and sat. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees. She couldn’t afford to tell him the truth. But he wasn’t going to leave this alone. So she had to find another solution.

“Talk to me,” he pressed.

She stared at the flames as they flickered in the fireplace. “Why?”

“Because as much as you don’t believe me, I care.”

“Why?” she asked again.

He rubbed his palms over his thighs. “We’re practically family.”

She shook her head. “Is that how you really feel? That we’re family? That you’re some big brother figure to me?”

He hesitated, and the silence filled every corner of the room. Tension built.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.

She stared him down. “You want me to be honest with you. Yet you’re willing to sit there and tell me you think of me as a little sister?” she challenged. The man was either lying to her or to himself.

“This isn’t about me,” he began.

“Do you see why I don’t feel like showering you with honesty? You can’t even be honest about that. Something we both know is true, and you still can’t admit it.”