Brick swore under his breath. He wanted to get on a plane, fly to Chicago and purposely knock the teeth out of every blogger and journalist who dared write lies about her.

“I swear. It isn’t true. I didn’t cause the accident.”

“You think I don’t fucking know that?” He reeled it back in. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Her eyebrows were high on her forehead. “How did you mean to say it?”

“You take your lumps. When you screw up or get caught, you apologize and take your punishment. If you had been driving, you would have already apologized publicly and privately about a hundred times.”

She heaved a sigh, her fingers tightening their grip on his. “I wish someone would tell her family that. They’re inclined to believe the gossip. When I tried to visit her, they had security escort me out of the hospital.”

“What about the police report? It would prove Camille was behind the wheel.”

“It would say that, if I hadn’t pulled her out before they got there. The car was sliding, and I thought we were about to plummet off the side of a cliff.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s just my word against a bunch of people speculating about a sexier story.”

“So you came home.”

“Yeah. I came home. I figured it might be nice to be Remi Ford again.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she immediately looked away. “I just wish I knew if she were okay. The news just keeps saying the same thing. Condition unknown. And no one will give me any answers. So I just sit here waiting for her to call, to say she’s okay.”

He couldn’t stand it anymore. Brick pulled her against his chest and held on tight. The muffled sob that escaped damn near broke his heart.

He didn’t tell her that everything was okay. Because it sure as hell wasn’t. But he’d find a way to make it okay. He’d find a way to reassure her.

“You know another stupid thing?” she asked, sniffling against his chest.

“What, baby?”

“I haven’t painted since the accident.”

“You broke your arm,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, that should just mean I can’t paint well. But there’s this block. Every time I pick up a brush, I just relive it over and over again. The impact. The horrific sound of metal scraping. And then the drop.” She shivered against him. “It’s like there’s no room for music in my head anymore.”

“You’re healing. Cut yourself some slack. You went through a trauma. You can’t just bounce back from it physically or emotionally.”

“What if I never bounce back? What if I never paint again? Or what if I do paint again, and it’s terrible?”

He cupped her face in his hands, hating the tears he saw there. “You’re Remington Honeysuckle Ford—you will fucking bounce back.”

Her laugh was half-hearted. “Is that an order?”

“You’re damn right. And here’s another one. Stay here. Don’t try to sneak out and go home tonight. I’ll sleep better if I know you’re here.”