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The way he looked the first time Sabre was placed in his arms (and then Manon, and then Yves).
The one he wore when I walked into Spring House, up in Montana. A house he’d designed and built. And I’d wandered around it, knowing it was different. Knowing he was shirking off the tethers of his firm. What he was told to do, what he was supposed to do, clearly making his own mark. And I told him it was by far the best work he’d done to date. Then he’d told me he wanted to quit the firm and start his own. And I’d instantly said, “Do it.”
And that one right there.
The one that was him and me eating barbeque at his counter in his house and pretending we hadn’t imploded.
That we were still us.
At the same time giving him another massive hint that was where I wanted us to get back to being.
“If Theo sticks around, he might want to get used to that,” Remy noted.
“My clients don’t tend to walk into my living room, Remy.”
“Manon has worked the last three summers in your warehouse, Wyn, and she’s getting a degree in fine arts. That degree has a zero-point-one job placement rate, unless she gets a couple of graduate degrees. She’s unofficially mentoring herself at your shop, likely because she wishes Noel was her brother by blood and she doesn’t want him to feel his position is challenged. Regardless, it doesn’t take a psychologist to see, if you allow it, this is going to be a family business. And although Theo is a solid guy, I don’t like the idea of Yves sticking with the first person he’s with rather than having some experience and knowing what he really wants. But if they work, Theo will be in our family.”
“I need to start taking Manon to shows,” I murmured.
“You do,” he agreed.
We shared a familiar weighted glance while sharing familiar agreement about one of our kids.
Then I turned back to my barbeque, and in between bites, I told him, “I mentioned Fiona for a reason.”
“Let me guess. She’s not finding a house. She’s finding a lot and wants me to scrape the house on it, if it has one, and build one for her.”
I faced him again. “How’d you guess?”
He smiled, shook his head and went for his wine. “Because I never should have done the Heald home. I’ve had calls from A-listers, B-listers, aging Hollywood royalty and a straggle of wannabes.”
“This is good,” I said.
“This is a disaster,” he replied. “Because, honey, those people are pains in the ass.”
“Fiona isn’t,” I disagreed, and I would know, because I had a lot of clients and a goodly number of them were a pain in the ass.
“They all are,” he refuted. “I swore to myself after Heald, not again. Christ, it’s a wonder I didn’t do time for murdering him when I worked with him. I changed my design fifteen times at his demand.”
I couldn’t believe I forgot this. It had done Remy’s head in. The guy was ridiculous, not only with his indecisiveness, but his demands on Remy’s time.
“Since then, I’ve had preliminary consultations with three actors, a director and a producer. All big names. All came to their meetings with definitive ideas, but before a week was up, they were already phoning repeatedly to suggest changes and additions. Now, I put them off before it gets to the consultation stage.”
“I don’t think Fiona would be like that. She’s decisive. Case in point, she found a piece of property north of Carefree yesterday and she’s buying it.”
He shook his head and went back to his food.
“Remy,” I called.
He shoved some turkey in his mouth and looked at me.
“Do you really have a two-year waiting list?” I asked.
“Literally, for someone to get direct to me, yes. For one of the talented people I employ, no. But it’s anywhere from eight months to a year. But they all want me. And I don’t bump people up the list. So if they want me, they wait for me.”
Well, damn.
Now I was in the position of asking my ex-husband, who I’d fallen into working on our relationship with, for what amounted to a very big favor.
Remy knew me, which was why he asked, “You told her I’d do it?”
“I told her I’d ask, and this is going to sound like pressure, still, you should know. I might not have texted you the other night if Fiona hadn’t told me I should.”
“Typical, she gives something, she gets something,” he muttered, and in his mouth went some beans.
“That’s life, for the most part,” I pointed out.
“Not for everyone. That’s just how those people work,” he replied, and I felt my eyes narrow.
“You hardly hobnob in Hollywood to know how they work,” I noted.
He took another sip of his wine before he looked me direct in the eye. “You think I haven’t lived my life around entitled people and don’t know how they work? My life has been the figurative carrot and stick. Emphasis on stick, Wyn. And I didn’t work my ass off to manage my own goddamned firm, to have a new line of privileged assholes taking their whips to me. If they want me, they can wait for me.”
