“Stop yard-saling my apartment, dick!”

“If you’d get off your broken-armed ass and start producing real paintings again while the attention is on like this, I wouldn’t have to snoop through your place for Alessandra originals.”

“I really regret giving you a spare key to my place.”

“Hey, if you don’t come back, can I have your apartment? It’s bigger than mine, and the natural light highlights my glorious brown skin.”

“I’m coming back,” she insisted. She had unfinished business to take care of.

“Whatever. Can I sell the painting or what, bro?”

Remi bit back a groan and dug out her resolve. She didn’t need to cling to something she’d kept only because it reminded her of Brick. Not anymore. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

“Awesome. Also, where do you get this fabric softener? I dig it.”

“Are you doing your laundry at my place?”

“My washer broke. I needed somewhere to wash my delicates.”

“I should fire you,” she mused.

“I might fire you if you don’t start producing again. How long does it take bones to heal anyway? And can you at least send me some pics of you pretending to work wherever the hell you are? This whole social media silence isn’t looking good.”

“Whatever. Don’t leave your underwear hanging all over my place,” she said before disconnecting.

Looking down at the watery mess she’d made on paper, she decided she wasn’t in the mood to paint anymore. Instead of a soft, full heart floating on puffy clouds, hers was a sharp, mottled one, split down the middle with colors bleeding under it as if the contents were swirling down a drain. After a quick clean-up, she let herself out the French doors into the bracing chill of the backyard before skirting the house to leave through the gate.

Squinting against the sun that bounced off the world of white, she stuffed her hands in her coat pockets and produced two brand-new, insulated gloves in hot pink that she definitely hadn’t put there. Brick. She didn’t know how or when, but the protective gesture had his annoying name all over them. On principal, she refused to put them on in case he was watching from a window. So it was with ice-cold fingers that she picked up the package leaning against the cottage gate.

She hurried inside to the coffeemaker. While it burbled to life, she used a steak knife to cut through the tape. Hoping for some of the art supplies she’d ordered, Remi’s eyes narrowed when she lifted the lid to reveal a newspaper clipping sitting on top of some kind of shredded material.

Ballard sells most recent piece for 6 figures.

She glared at the paper. She hadn’t done a damn thing. She hadn’t made any calls, sent any emails. She hadn’t tunneled into the hospital basement to break into Camille’s room. She’d followed his fucking rules, but the bastard still wasn’t happy. He wasn’t in control of the entire narrative. Alessandra Ballard’s reputation wasn’t his to crush.